


The Army

by NotRoman (Manniness)



Series: And Prove More Fierce [8]
Category: Nagron - Fandom, Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Agron loves his badass Nasir, Castus has a backstory, Castus smiles onto the scene, Crixus-Sedullus-Naevia: Welcome to the Hate Triangle, Duro draws the line and Agron guards it, Duro has a love interest, Duro is proud of his badass bros, Familiar faces find their way to Metapontum, Gannicus wants to believe... maybe, M/M, Metapontum, Nasir a.k.a. the Weather Vane of the rebellion, Nasir has a watchful shadow, Nasir is badass and training future badasses, Sibyl feels a higher power guides her hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-10-04 05:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17298455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/NotRoman
Summary: Sequel to RebelsAnd now they become an army.WARNINGS: Basically, if you've seen the TV show, you know what kind of triggers to expect. (I feel that the Starz Spartacus series itself is "Explicit" and, since this fic is a Canon AU, I'm sticking with that rating.) HOWEVER, I will post warnings (such as DEATH, TORTURE, GORE (violent or medicinal), and SEXYTIMES) at the beginning of corresponding chapters. FYI, I have ZERO plans to describe Non-Con/NCS in detail.





	1. Winter Camp

**Author's Note:**

> "The Army" is the eighth fic of the And Prove More Fierce series.
> 
> Nasir's POV (seven chapters) & Duro's POV (one chapter)
> 
> This story picks up a couple weeks after the end of "Rebels." If you haven't read "Rebels," "Vesuvius," "The Path," "Fugitives," "The Arena," "The Brotherhood," and/or "The Recruit," I recommend doing so as I have not made any attempt for the individual fics to stand alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: brief (and vague) mention of NCS (from Nasir's life as Tiberius)
> 
> Music rec: “Wolf” by Boy Epic (is my APMF!Castus theme song)

 

“Attack!”

My command was answered with a reckless swing, easily dodged.  I leaped to the side, brought right arm up and around--

\--smashed pommel into recruit’s elbow, a precision blow.

The wooden practice sword tumbled to the hard ground from numbed fingers.

The man shuffled around to face me, eyeing me with far more wariness than he had upon entering the training circle.  His cohorts jeered from ring’s edge.  I disregarded their words.  I had certainly heard their like before over the past weeks.  Many times.

“Retrieve sword and finish the fight or see yourself from fucking sight,” I commanded with thinning patience.  My belly ached for midday meal.

The recruit scooped up dropped weapon, gaze yet focused upon me.

Not that that would aid him.

He straightened and braced himself upon well-grounded feet.

Once more, I shouted: “Attack!”

This time, he stabbed for my belly.

_****Crack!** ** _

Training sword knocked wooden blade aside--

I shoved his overextended shoulder, slid around to his back--

Kick to knee--

His knees to dirt--

My fist tangling in his untidy, black curls -- sword’s dulled edge to throat.

He froze.

It was his first wise maneuver thus far: though the wooden gladius I used was blunted, I could still force it into flesh and end his life.

“Your name?” I demanded.

“Timocles.”

“Timocles.  See yourself to Lysandros for instruction.”  I stepped back and pointed the man toward the small group Lysandros was directing through drills.  “Learn sword.”  Upon consideration of his lack of confidence, I added, “Bow and arrow as well.  Mira will assign you an instructor.”

“Gratitude,” the man unhappily mumbled.

Had I the time to bolster his ego, I might have spared a word for encouragement, but I had ceased bothering to impart cheer many, many days ago.  Ever since our numbers had swelled to pack this plain with tents and wagons for an hour’s stroll in all directions.

Spartacus’ winter camp was flooded with followers.  More still arrived with each day.  Escaped house slaves, laborers, herdsmen, whores, gladiators -- they trickled out of the distant forests and hills, plodded across unsown fields in silence, and slipped into meal lines.

The Brotherhood no longer made attempt to learn names.  In fact, there was little point in enforcing much order at all, though anyone who would stand among our numbers was required to acquiesce to three maxims:

First, no weapons would be tolerated within Metapontum’s city walls.

Second, no one would force themselves or their will upon another.

Third, all who counted themselves a follower of Spartacus would learn to fight to the best of his or her ability regardless of illness or injury.

The last point was courtesy of Acer’s loud complaints: “Our ranks gain fat as a fucking Roman bitch.”

Indeed, Crixus’ prediction had proven true: rather than the Brotherhood recruiting fighting men to cause, it was the slaves who chose to follow.  Men long of years, soft-handed pleasure slaves, and pregnant women, all frequently sighted both within Metapontum’s walls and without.

“They expect us to defend them against Rome?  Fuck!” Acer had groaned with Mannus nodding snide agreement.  “Each of us possess a mere two hands!”

“And one of yours is required to hold cock at all times,” Duro had viciously teased.

“I have some piss for you to suck, pup!”

“Ha!  How eagerly you beg for my attentions.”

“Bend over and take cock in ass!”

“Would that yours were large enough to satisfy.”

Agron had made no move to intervene until Acer had stood, shoved Mannus’ halfhearted attempt at restraint aside and launched himself toward Duro.

“To the arena!” Spartacus had boomed from hall threshold, startling Gauls and Germans alike.  “Both of you!”

The arena.  It stood outside the city walls.  A theater built in antiquity.  Metapontum’s first Greeks had dug down into the earth and ringed the packed dirt stage with stone seating.  It had easily accommodated the few hundred men, women, and children who had gathered to enjoy Duro and Acer’s match.  Gauls and Germans, Syrians and Greeks, men and women and little monsters -- voices booming and screeching with every clap of wooden swords.

Thus we had gained an unspoken fourth law: no quarrel would be settled with death.  Every man or woman lost was at least one Roman unmatched upon the battlefield.  I hoped, perhaps foolishly, that these people would not serve to merely tangle a single Roman spear in guts; should these freed slaves seek freedom, I would have them claim it themselves rather than meekly wait for us to deliver it.

Not even Spartacus dared voice guarantee of the latter.

 _ ** **“I teach you not how to fight, but how to win.”****  _ The words were a favorite of Oenomaus who was neither prone to repetition nor compelled to bask in the sound of his own voice.  It followed, then, that he felt the distinction worthy of utterance.  As often as necessary to provide reminder.

Unfortunately, Duro had lost his fight against Acer.

“With much gratitude to fucking drink!” my young German brother had mewled pathetically the following morning, clutching pounding head in his battle-skinned hands.

Agron had shown absolutely no pity for him save the effort expended to toss a full water skin onto his brother’s lap.  “You might consider drinking in smaller quantities!”

“Argh!  Quiet voice, you fucking fuck!  I only drank to match Nasir.”

“Who holds his wine with more ease than you,” I had drawled.

Duro had not bothered to look up as he pointed accusing finger in my direction.  “Your fucking smile hurts my brain.  Fuck off, the both of you.”

“It is you who is guest under our roof,” Agron had gleefully informed.

“Then I puke upon your floor.”

Luckily, a basin had been close at hand.  Or, rather, foot.  I’d kicked it into Duro’s line of fire with such precision and promptness that I was sure it could be labeled a battle skill.  I’d had a sudden thought of butchering goat alongside Liscus and the tub we had used to catch guts and blood.  Heh.  Had Liscus yet lived, he no doubt would have attempted to claim credit for teaching me this as well.  Arrogant fucking Gaul.

“I fucking hate Gauls,” Duro had moaned.

Neither would I call them my favored people, but I would prefer Acer’s unending griping to the fucking pompous grins I received from each newly arrived shit smear of a recruit who, with a glance, assumed he could easily best me.

 _ ** **A boy,****_  they jeered.

 _ ** **Little man,****_  they snickered.

 _ ** **The sword is longer than he stands tall,****_  they laughed.

Ignorant shits.

The next man who swaggered forward -- a Numidian -- was remarkable only due to the dark length of dingy cloth wrapped around his head.  He stood a little taller than me, his form hardened from years of continuous labor.  Yet he was very much unbroken.  Not a field worker or miner, then.

The Numidian swept the wooden practice blade from Timocles’ hand and spun it neatly in grasp.

So.  He believed he possessed some useful technique.  We would see it to inevitable result.

I nodded a greeting, which he returned with playfulness that bordered on mockery.

“First position,” I warned, lifting sword.  Murmurs and the clink of coin changing hands -- Nemetes was encouraging bets again, the conniving fuck.  I would challenge him next.

For now, however…

“Attack!”

The Numidian charged forward with speed and strength.

_****Clap!  Crack!  Smack!** ** _

I blocked his first three attempts, relinquishing ground to test his footing, inviting swelling confidence to blind him--

My sword arm dropped and back exposed--

The Numidian hastily swung to take advantage, footwork sloppy and rushed--

I spun under his arm and whacked him across lower back with flat of blade.  “Dead!” I informed him, turning to--

_****Thwack!** ** _

Fuck.  The cunning shit grinned at me beneath our crossed blades.  He had not waited for me to reset our match and call “attack.”  No, he fought as though I had not just delivered spine-severing blow.

Very well.  Let us be done with novices’ games.

I kicked him in the lower belly.  Pivoted as he hunched forward.  Caught his sword hand in firm lock.  Squeezed weapon from his grasp--

His left hand clamped upon my right--

Elbow jab to base of neck between his shoulder blades--

He stumbled forward--

His sword, now firmly in my grasp, held against his throat and my sword slicing across his abdomen--

“Dead!” I barked.

He leaped, slamming up into my weight.

I fell back--

Slammed hard against ground--

His fingers tight upon my wrists, his shadow blocking the muted sunlight--

I tangled our legs, pulled and twisted--

He crashed to the dirt and I upon him, wooden blades crossed at his neck--

“Dead!” I hissed.

He grabbed for my throat--

I sat ass upon belly, forcing the air from his lungs, and wedged feet beneath his armpits.  Wrenched myself from choking grasp and stabbed one sword down against his bare chest.

“Dead!” I called for the fourth time.

This time, he made no move except to suck in one breath after another.

I stood.  Squinted down at him.  He, in turn, studied me.  There was no amusement in his expression now.  I endured his somber assessment for a moment longer and then I shifted both swords to one hand and held out opposite arm in aid.

He blinked, surprised, and then his winning smile returned as he accepted offer.

His clasp was strong.  I braced myself and levered him upright, noting the sparkle in his eyes; perhaps he would have made attempt to throw me over shoulder had he not been so preoccupied with attempting to ease burning lungs.

Hm.  As I had expected -- this man had never trained in a ludus.  His endurance was shit.

“Your name?” I asked, releasing his arm.

Fingers slowly -- deliberately -- brushed along my skin as he let go.  “Castus.”

“Castus, see yourself to the Veteran.”

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

Castus’ grin somehow widened even further.  “Such favorable assessment of my skill.”

“Of your determination and resourcefulness,” I corrected flatly.  “Regarding skill you’ve little to speak of.”

Our onlookers huffed low chuckles at the dig.

Castus seemed unbothered by my harsh words.  He tilted his head in deference.  “Then I shall see myself to the Veteran.”  His smile gleamed.  “And heed instruction so as to provide a truly worthy partner when we next cross paths.”

I snorted with disbelief, smirking.  The Veteran would take him apart piece by piece.  It was a pity I could not spare the time to watch.  Duro and Agron would no doubt enjoy the show.

“See it done,” I challenged and nodded for him to remove himself from sight.

The fucking Numidian bowed as he took his leave.  I somehow resisted the urge to roll my eyes at his theatrics.

“Nasir!”

I glanced up at the sight of Fulco shouldering through the crowd.  He held out his hand for the training swords.  “Your fucking Germans order me to relieve you of charge.”

“My fucking Germans order you to take up assigned task, you lazy fuck.  It is hours past noon.” I flicked a blade up toward the descending sun.  “Do you require lessons in telling time?”

He laughed in my face as I grinned viciously toward his.  “Be gone, tiny Syrian shit.  Spare yourself the grief of hearing your meager efforts compared to my prowess.”  He rolled his shoulders.

Were belly not howling with hunger and fingers not trembling with fatigue, I would have dared him to prove his claim.  Instead, I cheerfully gave reminder: “You’re to assess them.  Not bash their brains out.”

“A useful distinction!” Duro called from crowd’s edge.  He held a bowl in one hand.  Beside him, Agron held two.  Ah, my Germans.  How I adored them both.

I shoved one blade flat against Fulco’s chest and thrust the other into possession of a waiting recruit, taking advantage of the gawping man’s shock to shoulder my way free of the fucking training ring.  Gaze and intent focused upon my Germans, all else fell to unimportance.

“Do you make a habit of my rescue?” I teased, caressing the bowl from Agron’s right hand and into my grasp.

His slow smile and even slower indrawn breath caused the flesh to tighten along my spine in helpless reaction.

“You make a habit of requiring it,” Duro mumbled around a bite, eating as we meandered toward nearest campfire.

I rallied: “As you require cloth to wipe chin?”

Agron laughed and cuffed Duro, who retorted, “There is no food upon my chin!”

“No food, no,” I agreed, “but perhaps a small creek flowed that way during the night?”

Scowling, he scrubbed at the telltale trail of crusted drool with back of hand.

“You may have to consent to washing, brother,” Agron informed him with a shake of his head.

“And it’s yet three days ‘til market day!” I lamented with false sympathy.

“Fuck you both.”  He dropped his arm and declared, “Neither of you could spot proof of well-serviced cunt even were you to fall in it face first.”

“So you assume,” I drawled just as Agron sneered, “As you would have us believe you did.”

Duro frowned, ignoring his brother’s words and focusing upon me.  Agron was quick to follow.

Fuck.

Drawing a deep breath, I lifted a hand to forestall the questions I could see twitching Duro’s brow.  “I have no desire to speak of it.  Press no inquiries.”

Without a word, Duro tapped me lightly on the shoulder and found himself a seat at the fire.  Agron’s fingers trailed over my scruffy jaw, tilting my gaze up to his.  German words -- his heart offered yet again -- and a chaste kiss upon my lips.  My fingers curled around the back of his neck, prolonging our embrace and he ceded to my demand.

Despite all the acts I had been forced to perform and endure -- unclean memories forever lurking beyond edge of immediate thought -- Agron never shied from my touch in disgust.

Perhaps he would were he aware of the services Romans favored…

“Nasir?” he prompted and I realized I now stared blankly at his lips.

“Apologies--”

He sighed, passing the pad of thumb over my lips and tilting brow against mine.

Eyes squeezing shut, I pressed a kiss to his skin and whispered my own vow to him.  My knowledge of German tongue had advanced enough that I could competently translate the words.  I meant each and every one.  And yet, this time, they emerged upon rising intonation.  Not unlike a question.

Agron bent his knees and petted my cheek until I opened my eyes.  My stomach growled.

My lover’s mouth quirked.  “Should you speak, I would listen.”  When I shook my head, he continued, “Then take meal and rest.”

Exhaling with relief, I strode past corner of tent and plopped down across from Duro at fireside.  It was by chance that I found myself sharing a log with Gannicus.  Agron claimed the remaining space beside me as the Celt looked over to challenge interlopers in his territory.

He relaxed at the sight of us.  “Ah-ha-ha!  My Syrian brother!  It has been too many days since we spilled Roman blood together, eh?  And you bring one of your Germans to cheer our efforts!  Agron,” Gannicus greeted with a jerk of unshaven chin.

Agron grunted in reply.  These two -- I was fortunate they tolerated each other.  I bumped Agron’s elbow as I spoke to the Celt, “Gratitude for lending your sword to the raids.  Supplies are well received.”

Though most of the farmhouses surrounding Metapontum had been swiftly vacated of inhabitants following annual harvest and put to use as warehouses for storing grain during the winter -- a regular practice in a city with so much room to spare -- our swiftly climbing numbers had been emptying these makeshift granaries at an alarming rate.

“Eh,” the Celt exhaled, shrugging aside words of appreciation and stretching out legs.  “I would acquire my wine honorably.”

Honorably.  “The sutlers yet conduct business with Cilicians?”

“They fucking do.”  Gannicus shook his head.  “I had thought better of Diotimos.”

Diotimos had taken a small, abandoned shop for himself within Metapontum where he sold daily necessities.  He would make more coin should he tote his wares out here among the rabble, but his skills with the sword, spear, and bow were mediocre at best.

The same could not be said for the woman garbed in tunic and leg wrappings who sat beside Duro: Sibyl.

Ah.  Of course.  Little wonder Gannicus had been so distracted and startled by our arrival.

I did not speak of his continued fascination with the young woman.  Nor did I hold intent to mention my midnight conversation with Sibyl weeks past, but I would wager that a number of Roman families with young children and well-treated slaves had slipped past rebel grasp before judgement day had dawned.

Quietly, I mused, “At a glance, one would never think her capable of besting Naevia.”

Gannicus arched a brow at me.

I bit back a grin at his silent demand for explanation.  “I witnessed it myself a few days past.  She takes Duro’s instruction to heart.  Her skills have surely improved further since.”

“Never to be sufficient to task,” Gannicus grumbled, scowling.

“Which task is that?” I replied, my ire stirring on Sibyl’s behalf.  “A god of battle would assign each of us charge as a god of the arena directs each fucking Roman ass where to sit?”

Agron shifted, lowering his unfinished bowl to ground as Gannicus whipped around to gape at my lock-jawed anger.

The Celt drawled in crooked-grinned bemusement, “Our little wild dog snarls and snaps fit to cause insult.”

Despite the warning flashing in the man’s eyes, I did not retreat.  I pushed my face closer to his and hissed, “It is you who call it insult.  I call it truth.”

“A champion of the arena--”

“--is a slave.”

Gannicus stared at me.  I stared back.

Out of the corner of my eye, Duro shifted.  Stiffened.  Braced himself.  I could only imagine Agron’s posture.

Gannicus ignored all but issued challenge.  And then suddenly he leaned back on a chuckle.  “As I am a slave now!  Cast gaze upon the hungry mouths I serve,” he invited, arms spread wide.

Loosening grip upon my irritation, I offered friendly suggestion: “Should current purpose not satisfy, you might seek another.”

Glancing past my shoulder, Gannicus informed Agron, “Your Syrian delivers sound advice.”

“I have always found it so.”

“But he’s testy when belly aches for food.  You would do well to take better care of him.”  Gannicus slapped his thighs and pushed to feet.  “And now I will seek Saxa and see to m--”

“Apologies for interruption.  You are Gannicus?”

Mouth full of cold stew, I took in the sight of a small gathering of men and women.  They had the scraggly, ill-used look of slaves bound for hard labor.  Recently liberated from slaver carts.

“So I am called,” the Celt admitted with forced charm.

“It was you who led the attack upon road and saw us free of bonds.  Gratitude.”

I ate, gaze politely aimed elsewhere, as the men and women shakily clasped Gannicus’ reluctantly offered arm.  I had finished half my meal before I heard their bare footsteps pattering away… perhaps toward Diotimos’ shop to acquire previously owned sandals.

Gannicus sighed heavily.

I looked up in time to see his shoulders slump with unseen weight.

“I mistook their cart for one bearing drink,” he muttered unhappily.

Duro barked a laugh.  “The gift of overindulgence!  Ringing in ears often sounds as the clinking of amphorae, eh?”

Gannicus chuckled, shaking a finger at Duro but the moment of merriment swiftly grew stale.

“A void left in the wake,” a soft, feminine voice contributed.  Every gaze looked to Sibyl.  She rose from her seat, standing with shoulders squared by certainty rather than pride.  “Is it filled by your woman and the pursuit of wine?”

So she had been watching him in return.

Gannicus cocked his head and drawled, “Distractions you might also enjoy.”

Her head tilted to the side in a mirror of his.  “You seek distraction from weight of gratitude.”  It was not a question. “A burden you shoulder in acting as savior rather than enabling them to free themselves.”

Gannicus frowned.  Squinted.  Mocked.  “An agile tongue -- your words tangle and twist upon it.”

Surprisingly, Sibyl looked to me. “Nasir understands.”

Indeed I did.  “I have not your eloquence in offering explanation.”

Duro huffed a laugh and provided blunt words to aid: “Remove head from ass, Celt, and fucking see your efforts to completion.  Those poor fucks know not how to grasp their fate in own hands--”  Duro gestured toward Gannicus with empty bowl.  “--and so their dead weight hangs upon your shoulders.”

“I would have expected to set eyes upon the Ferryman before hearing you share Acer’s opinion.”

Duro shrugged.  “Even a Gaul may utter sensible words should he speak enough of them.”

“Such is Acer’s habit,” Agron wryly agreed.

Duro grinned.

“Still,” Gannicus argued, directing words toward Sibyl, “the gods do not favor everyone by providing timely-abandoned blade at their feet.”

“I pray such a rain of steel never plummets from the heavens,” she easily concurred.  “It is not the manner of weapon which the gods supply in answer to prayer.  It is our own hands, which are too fearful to trust in the will of the gods and accept their guidance.”

“You!”  Gannicus brayed, bending at waist with the force of his mirth.  “You would claim the will of the gods sets hands to purpose!”

I blinked at Sibyl’s beaming smile.  “They do.  What power moves your hands?”

He sputtered irreverently: “What moves my--my hands--the hands of a god--”

“Of the arena,” I cut in, reminding him of our earlier discussion, my brows quirking when Gannicus glanced my way, his mirth fading.  “Sibyl poses wise inquiry, my friend.”

Perhaps this had been my error.  In seeking to cheer him from the ill fate he’d feared bringing upon friends in Metapontum, I had made attempt to show him the good his efforts could yield and focused solely upon worthwhile result.

Had Gannicus ever asked himself for what purpose he spilled blood, or had he merely assumed that the sum of a good life could be found in fighting, fucking, women, and wine?  Even Donar had abandoned the simple thrill of battle to seek something more, something I also fought for: family.

The Celt bowed out of burgeoning discussion.  “I shall leave wisdom to those versed in it.”

“And how will you gain such skill yourself if you make no attempt to practice?”  Sibyl’s voice was as soft as ever and absent accusation, each word breathed with innocence and reverence.  Peace.  Little wonder gazes followed her every move.  Even Gannicus was compelled to glance back as he took his leave.

If Sibyl noted his puzzled scowl, she gave no indication.

To hide my smirk, I asked, “Sibyl, are you well?”

“I am.  Although…” she shyly murmured, “I would be grateful for a sparring partner…?”

I chuckled.  “Rabanus expects me.”  And he would not release me until he had wrung every dram of effort from me, of that I was certain.  “Tomorrow?  Mid morning at the arena?”

“Gratitude, Nasir.”  Glancing over my shoulder, she nodded to Agron.  “I leave you to finish your meal.”

As I scooped out another spoonful of congealed stew, Agron leaned down to collect his bowl.  “Tomorrow,” he repeated through a wide grin.  “You face the hands of the gods?”  Tucking chin to chest, he stated, “I would stand witness.”

“Then see yourself freed of duties.”

Duro snickered.  “What will Spartacus do without hourly reports from lookouts and raiding parties delivered by his German general?”

“You envy.”

“Were that true, I’d claim your charge instead of inviting myself to this epic battle.”

I sputtered through a laugh, coughing around the final bite of stew.  “Am I doomed?” I asked my brothers.

Agron ducked down for a swift kiss.  “As are the rest of us.”

I supposed we were.  Well.  I’d set that concern aside for another time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that Nasir is totally jazzed to be showing up all the over-confident recruits in 3x01 (especially with Agron looking on and supplying kisses on demand), but I kind of miss grumpy!Nasir so I made him overworked and hungry in the opening of this chapter. Also, Nasir had EARNED the mark of the Brotherhood, so there’s an extra depth to his pride in APMF.
> 
> No, I’m not going to have Sibyl preach the will of the gods to anyone who will listen. But gosh does Sibyl (in the TV show) come awfully close to blossoming into a holy warrior. (A female version of the warrior monk, you know?) So, I feel that Sibyl’s greatest strength (in the TV show) is her capacity to believe, to have faith, and to love -- all of these things she gives to Gannicus unconditionally (in the TV show). We shall see if this still happens in APMF -- I’m not writing their interactions with a set-in-stone endgame in mind. Gannicus and Sibyl are going to be telling me where they stand with one another.
> 
> ***On a more personal note, I want you to know that I will read every comment and, with your encouragement and enthusiasm, this series will continue forward. Thank you for coming on this journey with me, dear fandom friend. (^_^)


	2. Tipping Cups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... are you guys ready for the APMF version of the whole celebration hall where Nasir-gets-sloshed-and-Castus-saunters-over scene? (Spoiler alert: I LOVE DURO.)
> 
> Just to be clear, I'm not trying to change your opinion of Castus. Actually, I hope I've written him in-character while taking the unique aspects of this AU into account. You can love him or hate him. I definitely had a lot of fun writing him as he progresses along the path he's on. (^_^)

Shield.

Sibyl’s choice of weapon was an interesting one… and a glance at Duro’s broad grin confirmed that my young German brother had encouraged her choice in it.  He did indeed possess much skill in wielding shield.  How much of that he’d managed to impart to his student, we would soon see.

It was mid morning and only one other pair of combatants claimed the arena stage.  At any given time, several duels might be in progress, but this morning found Lysandros unleashing his impressive range of skills upon a man who was clearly a recruit.  One who would have little pride remaining once my friend was finished with him.

“Your shield holds a strong resemblance to Duro’s,” I observed.

“The same,” she admitted.

Hm.  If Duro believed I would not shatter it to see myself to victory, then he stood a fool.  A fool who had devoted every evening from the last fortnight to whittling and shaving this wide, round implement into a lightweight weapon.  Had he been encouraging Sibyl to challenge me for just as long?

I really ought to have been spending more time with my brothers.  From this day forward, I would delegate more of my duties to others.

“You fight with blunted spear and training sword,” she assessed, unsurprised.

I supposed I was predictable in my choice of armament.  I was reminded of my first days within ludus and my study of over-used strategy.  I would not underestimate Sibyl as my future brothers-in-brand had underestimated me.

“Have you no blade at all?” I inquired, curious.

She revealed a knife, its blade measuring the length of her arm from wrist to inner elbow.  The sheath was securely tied to hilt.

Already, I was forming an image of her strategy.

And I was glad I had not arranged for our duel to follow hours of harrowing training opposite Rabanus.  My body yet ached from strenuous battle despite warm bath, massage received from loving hands, a long night’s rest upon soft bed, and unabridged round of stretching upon waking.

“Will you place a bet on my victory?” I had teased Agron.

“No, but you may have whatever you desire from me as reward.”

Quite the incentive.

“Have you trained in falling safely and quickly regaining feet?” I checked.

“Of course.  Vitus and Tilius offered instruction.”

“And Naevia provided test?”

Sibyl smiled, ignoring the interest we were drawing and the attention Agron and Duro were garnering where they sat, claiming nearest seats with clearest view.

She said, “I doubt I will face many women among Roman ranks.”

That was very true.  “Once you best me, you might seek additional challenge from Spartacus.”

She laughed, turning even more heads toward our imminent duel.  “Recommendation well-received, though premature.”

“Is it?” I mused, my lips quirked not in mockery but anticipation.  “Let us see what we make of each other.  First position!”

Sibyl half-crouched, shield held at back and sheathed blade in leading hand.

I lifted spear.

“Attack!”

Attack.  Yes, Sibyl did.  Where I had learned to use the shield as an extension of fist -- to slam and pummel and smash against enemy -- Sibyl wielded its sharp, curving edge.  Striding forward, ducking under my spear and spinning.

_****Swish!** ** _

_****Whoosh!** ** _

I leaped out of range of shield as it swept in an arch to catch the side of knee, knife’s blade following in its wake to slice hamstring.

A narrow miss.

I smiled as she neatly completed the spin and faced me once more.  An impressive opening volley.

I returned the favor in kind, spinning and twirling, moving with spear to cast her shield arm wide, knock blade out of range, and scoop her feet out from under her.

She stumbled back, nearly tumbling, but somehow digging in her heels at the last moment and launching toward me, blade and shield whistling through the air as I dodged, darted inside her guard, and tangled her feet with spear shaft.

Sibyl danced clear with grace.

Shield swooping high and descending toward neck--

I ducked and smacked at the back of her knees--

“Oomph!” she gasped upon impact, but her knife was yet moving--

I jerked back before she could strike at my belly.

She rolled to her feet as I found my balance.

Finding it, I twirled spear-- _ ** **smack!****_

Sheathed dagger clattered to the ground-- _ ** **thud!****_

Shield blurred toward spinning spear-- _ ** **clack!****_

My weapon halted, she twisted around, gaining momentum and shield screaming toward my unguarded side.

But in presenting back to opponent, she made herself vulnerable.

Spear spanned her shoulders and I tugged her close against my chest.

How would she wrest herself free now?

She did not.  She brazenly yanked gladius from sheath at my hip and drove its blunt point against my thigh in a long scrape that -- had the blade been sharpened metal -- would have carved through muscle and down to bone.

Inventive.

I replied in kind.  Dropping left shoulder, I spun smartly.  With Sibyl’s back yet pressed to my chest, her feet tangled.  I twisted her off-balance and face-down upon the ground beneath me.  She held no leverage for use of either shield or stolen sword.  I rolled the spear shaft up under her chin, bringing her head back and bowing spine.

“Missio,” she choked out and I quickly removed my weight from her slight form.

Ignoring the cheers from the gathered crowd, I held out an arm to aid her to her feet, I congratulated her, “Impressive effort.”

“Which yet yields defeat.”

“Show me again,” I invited, scooping up her preferred dagger from the ground and exchanging it for training sword.

“And demonstrate defeat again.”

“As all fights must end,” I conceded, “but you now hold knowledge of my speed and limitation of weapon.  Adapt and see me to the sands.”

A bright smile blossomed upon her dirt smudged face.  “First position?”

I nodded.  We faced off.  “Attack!”

This time, I took edge of shield to hip and Sibyl fell back onto her shoulders at a brutish blow from spear -- its shaft gripped in each hand and shoved against her chest in a moment of lowered guard.

I spoke correction.

She rose to her feet, twitching her tangled braid back over her shoulder and nodded.

“Attack!”

Her dagger would have sliced through the skin of my wrist and forced me to wield spear one-handed, but I spun against her -- an unstoppable charge that sent her stumbling to her knees and struggling to block spear thrust with shield.

She managed it barely and as blunted tip struck earth, she kicked at my ankle.

I drew sword and blade’s edge tilted her chin back.

She was dead, but the fire in her eyes was just as determined.

“A break,” I proposed, “and let us consider successful counter.”

We worked through the sequence slowly, finding a promising response to my attack.

“First position?” I suggested.

“Yes.  I would see you to the sands this time, friend.”

I encouraged her with a nod.  “Attack!”

Sibyl swept and circled, driving me back.  When I moved in to strike, she anticipated and knocked me to the sand.  I tumbled through the motion and onto knees, then feet, and she was upon me, sharp blade to throat and shield trapping right arm.

I swung with left, grabbing her neck and yanking her off, tumbling her aside.  Grabbed for sword and my blade at her throat as we both panted, grinning.

“I killed you first,” she pointed out.

“Yes, you did.  Well done, Sibyl.”

“I stand confused,” Duro mused as I relinquished the arena to the next match.

“A common occurrence.”  I grinned.

He rolled his eyes.  “Who fucking won?”

Agron chuckled, low and promising.  “I did,” he replied, anticipating the uses I would demand of him later.

“You offered superior incentive,” I informed.

“Ugh.  Do you two never cease?”  Duro grimaced and rolled tongue forward as if to scrape unwelcome taste from its surface.  “My belly lurches.”

“In which case, I reveal your prize later and in private, victor,” I teased my lover, tilting chin up for a readily supplied -- if chaste -- kiss.

Swapping the training blade for my usual gladius, which Agron had been charged with holding during the match, and reclaiming sharp spear from Duro’s care, I glimpsed Gannicus’ retreating form.  Sibyl’s gaze followed him, but I witnessed neither desire nor pity in her eyes.  It was, perhaps, something like faith.  Though what she believed of him or for him, I could not begin to surmise.

Rather than permit myself to be drawn into the unending task of evaluating and training recruits, I kept company with Agron and Duro.  When it became clear that I would not be seeking separate task, Duro beamed at me and Agron’s hand brushed over my shoulder and back.  We broke words with the ever-increasing rabble of Germans.  The group claimed much of the eastern side of Metapontum’s plain, from city wall to the banks of the Bradanus River and, by the look of the thickened crowd, their numbers had doubled since my last visit.

“One man army!!” Lugo bellowed, stomping forward with arms thrown wide in greeting.

Laughing, I accepted his exuberant welcome, though I was certain my back would be bruised from the friendly claps upon it.  At least he no longer made attempt to lift me off of my feet.

“How do you fare, you mad fucking German?”

He pouted.  Fucking pouted.  “Nasir and Lugo do not drink together for many days!”

Clearly, I had wronged him.  “Apologies.  Come to the city after dusk.  We will tip cups together.”

“We will all tip cups together,” Agron amended, nearly smiling.

Lugo’s arms flapped helplessly in the air.  “Nasir yet suffer Agron so all must do same, eh?”

I punched Lugo in the shoulder.  “Close fucking mouth else I rescind offer.”

The stout German boomed a chuckle up at the sky.  “Nasir too smart for Agron.  Tonight, Lugo explain this.”

He patted my shoulder, smacked Agron’s and Duro’s and then trotted off to shout at a recruit who was struggling with a hammer that was clearly too large for him.

Though Lugo was loud and enjoyed celebration at all hours of day and night, he was skilled with the handling of people.  He laughed at the recruit, yes -- the poor fellow flushed with mortification -- but Lugo happily, if a bit brusquely, coached him to proper stance and grip nonetheless.

Lugo.  Sedullus.  Nemetes.

Agron.  Duro.

Such a range of men hailed from east of the Rhine.

Totus called Duro over to where he sat sharpening ax blade with whet stone, and Agron’s fingers brushed my elbow.  “Lugo speaks truth.”

“Hm?”

Agron tucked his chin in and confessed, “A man possessed of your wit rarely seeks the company of men like me.”

Pivoting to face him fully, I inquired, “Men like you?  Are there many?  I can take account of one upon each finger and yet find nine digits remaining.”

My lover huffed, squinting in puzzlement and disbelief.  “And what manner of description is used to label this man as apart from all others?”

“The man I would call mine -- he would have me wild and fierce.  Unshackled and at his side.  An equal.”

Agron’s throat moved, tensing with emotion that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Were those not your words?” I reminded.

“Many of them.”

I reached up and grasped his arm.  “Do not think Lugo is the first to pose similar question.  Many who took refuge in Reginus’ villa made inquiry.  As did Lucius at Vesuvius.”  Looking into Agron’s eyes, I told, “My answer has never deviated.”

Agron shook his head.  “You are satisfied with too little.”

“Little?  No, you are a big man,” I jested, brows quirked.  “Would you have me demand more of you to match?”

A sudden smile and light now dancing in his eyes, he nodded.

“So I shall.”  Curling a hand around nape, I coaxed him close for a lingering kiss.  “This evening,” I vowed, “we shall allow sufficient time for the most pressing demands.”

“Are there many?”  His breathing shallowed, quickened.

“So many that one night will surely not see them all satisfied.”

Playing along now, he wondered, “A night and day, then?”

“A night and a day for years to come.”

This time, Agron kissed me.  His hands shading our mouths and his tongue rolled against mine.  Ah, gods.  While I appreciated that Agron often followed my direction in regards to intimacy -- especially in locations where curious eyes might cast gaze upon us -- I adored the moments when he was overcome and moved to embrace me absent care for the opinions of others.

A shrill whistle -- it whipped against ears, setting them stinging.

Agron and I startled apart and glowered at the sight of Saxa’s sharp smile.  In German, she teased Agron.  I could only make out the words for “cock” and “fuck” and “Syrian” amid her playful tone and hitching brows.

“Do you not speak the common tongue now?” I countered in German, enunciating carefully.  “With Gannicus?”

“Common tongue!” she growled, glancing up at the cloudy sky in exasperation before muttering something else, a lengthy remark whose meaning I could not catch.

Agron answered slowly and with precise movements of mouth.  His meaning was frustratingly unclear to me, but I discerned the words for “venture” and “lover.”

Saxa bristled and I realized that Agron’s manner was not wholly for my benefit but meant as a chastisement: he spoke as an older brother or father to a young child.

Baring teeth in a snarl, she stormed off.

“I understood almost nothing of that,” I admitted.

Agron sighed.  “She claims there is no need for her to learn common tongue.  She will see Rome destroyed before she has need of it… and the activities she and Gannicus take part in require no shared words.”

No wonder the Celt drifted as a vessel absent anchor.  Why he made no approach to reaffirm bonds with his brother Oenomaus, I did not know, but he would find no grounding force in Saxa who thrived on ever-shifting chaos.

I asked of Agron: “And your answer?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek.  Sighed.  “I advised her to consider it a worthwhile venture or else risk losing her lover to another.”

Given that Nemetes had ignored her in favor of satisfying his ambitions among Sedullus’ circle, it was a sharp barb indeed.  However… “Needful words,” I assured Agron, who peered after her.  “Gannicus now seeks something that wine, women, and battle do not offer.”   

“Something that fucking Celt might find with a certain opponent of yours?”

Taking in Agron’s wry expression, I felt a grin stretch my lips.  “We could all learn much from Sibyl.”

Agron’s expression sobered.  His hands cupped my jaw.  “I am aware for what purpose I fight.”

“I hold no doubt.”  Agron fought for his brothers as I fought for mine.  I yet hoped that my actions would enable others, would free shackled hands and fearful hearts to embrace life and choice, but first and foremost I fought to keep my Germans safe and hale.

It surprised me to realize that I could not say what Duro fought for.  I assumed he fought for us -- as he had when challenging Crixus in the ludus -- but that was then.  We had ventured a far distance from those sands and specific threat.

Why did Duro follow Spartacus?  Months ago, why had he and Agron argued for camping at Vesuvius and recruiting fighting men when paths through the jagged and treacherous peaks of the Alps had yet stood clear of snow and ice?  Why had they lingered in Rome instead of making hasty return to homeland?

As I meandered through the German-held side of camp, exchanging words, clasping hands, and even accepting brief sparring matches, I kept watchful eye upon Duro’s efforts.

“To what end?” I inquired that night.  The hall was full, as it typically was at this hour.  Bustling and throbbing with noise.  Agron and a newcomer by name of Vertiscus were arm wrestling under the incorrigible coaching of Lugo, who blithely suggested that the victor would surely win my highly coveted favor.  What utter fucking nonsense, but it was all in good fun.  Duro and I cheered along with the crowd, cups thrust high, but I would not waste opportunity to break words.  “To what end?” I spoke a second time.

“Would you prefer they dropped cloth and compared cocks?”

My elbow dug into Duro’s ribs, producing a helpless giggle.  My ticklish German brother.  I elaborated: “To what end did you and Agron choose to remain in Rome?  After ludus’ fall, you made no suggestion to see yourselves north.”

He shrugged a shoulder.  “You were yet injured.”

“I am to blame, then,” I replied tersely, “should ill befall either of you upon Roman soil?”

“What?  Of what do you fucking bleat?”  Duro scowled at me.  “You are my brother’s heart.  You think we would leave you here?  Or risk your life while you were yet wounded -- to the purpose of saving mine, I might add!”

I was taken aback by his fervor.  “You are brothers.”

He corrected firmly: “We are brothers -- the three of us.”

I shook my head, jaw clenched, grip tight upon clay cup.  “If I stand as the reason you risk life -- both yours and Agron’s -- then you should have offered me choice in the matter!”

“Choice!  As you offered fucking choice when you sent us from your sight while you endeavored to return those sniveling fucks to Roman service?  Or when you risked further injury in effort of killing Marius’ guards?  Or when you broke words with Spartacus on seeing yourself from Batiatus’ ludus and to the home of wretched fucking patron Numerius?”  Duro’s brows lifted in mockery.  “Or perhaps when Spartacus first spoke of vengeance and Agron feared the Thracian forced his will upon you and all my brother desired was to know the thoughts you kept secret?  Do you speak of those choices?”

I... I… _****fuck!****_

“Nasir!”

I did not halt at Duro’s shout.  I wove through the crowd far more nimbly than he could, twisting and squirming my way past friendly bouts of wrestling, dancing, fucking, singing.

I was of a mind to return to the domus Agron and I had claimed, but took pause.  Agron would only greet me there with questions.  Questions I stood unable to answer.

Unable?

No.  No, I stood _****unwilling.****_

I drained my cup.  Someone refilled it.  I thanked the stranger with a smile and drained that one as well.  And the ones that followed.  At some point, I barreled into a tall, broad form.

“Heed your steps, little man,” the oaf laughed, his hand upon my shoulder steadying the swaying room.

“Gratitude,” I mumbled down at my nearly-full cup.  Which number was this one?  Ah, fuck.  I had lost count.  My gaze traveled up, over my own wrist, and toward the skin of inner arm where mutilated, puckered flesh had healed.  I picked at the cloth I kept wrapped around it, suddenly desiring to set eyes upon the brand Ashur had sliced off and Glaber had ordered remade and Medicus had sliced spoiled flesh from--

Wine dribbled over my fingers as I angled arm up--

And then a warm hand was righting my cup.  I looked up, smiling, anticipating my--

Oh.  It was that Numidian fuck.  “Castus,” I blurted, frowning.  Where was Agron?

He smiled.  That fucking white-toothed smile.  So charming.  What thoughts did such a man hide behind it?  He fought absent proper training, utilizing a great many underhanded maneuvers.  I made no accusations, but I would hold fucking suspicions.

“Ah, you recall my name,” he preened.  “That will ease my task of coaxing you to share cup.”

Share cup?  I looked from the hand yet curled around my wrist to the other.  The man held nothing in his hands.  No cup.  A problem easily remedied absent my assistance.  “Mine is spoken for,” I intended to say.  Perhaps I did.  My mouth was numb -- my face as well.  My entire being was blessedly wonderfully numb.

“Then pause a moment,” Castus implored.  “And tell me of the one who shares it.”

A puff of laughter exploded from my nose.  “To what end?”

Memory chimed -- had I not just spoken those very words to Duro?  And it was his reply I would drown in wine, yet it stubbornly bobbed to the surface.  Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.

Castus spoke and I latched onto each utterance, clinging to distraction: “Simply to hear the sound of your voice.  Need I another purpose?”

“The tone rings so sweet in your ears?”  I meant it as a jest, but the question emerged far too flat.  My throat was numb as well, it seemed.  Body, voice, senses, all disconnected from mind, and yet memory clung tightly.  Fuck the gods.

“As music from the heavens,” Castus purred.  “I would pay any price to hear it and hope my name might yet again slip from your lips.  Come, let us sit.  Tell me your tale.  I would wager it surpasses all others.”

This man was ridiculous.  Utterly unaware of the ass he made of himself.  Fuck but Duro would laugh in his face were my German brother here and--

“Nasir!”

I shuddered.  Oddly, the feel of it wracking my body did not reach my awareness.  Rather, I blearily noted the subtle shifting of Castus’ grasp upon my wrist and also upon my other arm -- when had he placed a second hand upon me?

I blinked as an arm slid over my shoulders and found myself squinting up at Duro’s wide smile.  “You have been missed!” he informed me.  There was an edge to his jovial manner that I could not identify.

Turning to the Numidian, Duro inquired, “And you are lost, perhaps?  I happily provide direction toward wine barrel--”  Duro looked very pointedly at the fingers lazily withdrawing from my wrist.  “--and cup of your own to enjoy.”

“Gratitude.”  Castus grinned.  “But it is not solely wine that I seek.  I hold desire toward making acquaintance, for I am newly arrived.”

“Is that so?  Welcome,” my young brother replied lightly, the sharp edge in his manner honing further.  “From where do you hail, brave fool?”

Castus chuckled absent sound, bare chest bouncing.  “Am I a fool for greeting familiar face?”

“Familiar face?”  Duro looked to me and asked, “Know you this smiling fuck?”

“Ja,” I answered, belatedly realizing that Duro had addressed me in German and I had answered in kind.  For my next words, I spoke in common tongue: “A new recruit.  He trains under the Veteran.”

“Familiar and well remembered,” Castus practically sang.  “A favor I would gratefully return in freeing such beauty tragically mired in shit from east of the Rhine.”

Had he spoken in common tongue or German?  Hm… common tongue, I decided.  And promptly decided that it did not matter.  The fucking Numidian had issued insult.  To my brother.  To my lover.  To my family and the men I loved--

_****Smack!** ** _

My knuckles throbbed; I scowled in response to ineffectual blow.  I had aimed for Castus’ cheek, but caught his chin instead.  Fuck!  I was too drunk to properly defend my Germans.

Duro brayed a laugh in my ear.

Castus blinked at me in shock and -- fuck the gods -- burgeoning endearment.  Teeth bared, I snarled at Duro, “Where in all this shit and piss is Agron?  I hold wine I’ve no intention of drinking.”

Duro leaned forward, blocking my view of Castus, and pointed me toward distant, frowning German gladiator attempting to squeeze through the writhing crowd.

“Ah, gratitude, brother,” I shouted into his ear and then made my long, frustratingly slow way to Agron’s side.  Why had I left it in the first place?

“I bring you wine!” I gleefully informed him, clutching his arm to steady him in the swirling room.

Agron sputtered.  “A nearly full cup.  To celebrate my victory?”

Victory.  That sounded familiar.  Ah, yes!  “Your victory I would celebrate with my cock in your hand… and wine far from it.”

Agron beamed and nodded me toward hall’s entrance.  “See me home and let us see it done.”

As Agron nudged me over hall’s threshold, I took opportunity to turn my face toward his chest and inhale deeply.  His arm curled along my back and my eyes drifted shut on a smile.

When I next took note of surroundings, it was in response to the thunder rolling through my skull.  I did not dare move, groan, or open eyes.  I breathed.  It would be cruel to ask more from a man in my condition.  I focused on the soft mattress beneath me.  It felt stable.  Secure.  Safe.

A cool, damp cloth descended upon brow and I winced before a measure of pain eased.

“Drink water,” Agron murmured from bedside.

I squeezed my eyes open enough to ascertain that the only light in the room came from a small lamp in far corner.  The door was shut, stopping the sharp, stabbing light of dawn from crossing threshold.

Rather than a cup, Agron offered me a water skin and a soft smile.  I drank slowly without having to shift my pounding head, hydrating dry tongue and easing parched throat.  As he returned the pouch to wall hook, I cupped his face and feathered thumb over lips.

“Do I dream?” I whispered and answered his head-tilt of inquiry: “Are you mine?  Truly?”

“Truly.”

I tugged him close until he climbed onto our bed and cradled my miserable form in the larger curve of his.  His fingers softly smoothed over my hair, coaxing the pain aside for brief moments.  Like the tide drawing out.

“Did you win?” I eventually inquired, eyes closed once more.  “Against Vertiscus?”

He hummed.  “Of course.”

I was well acquainted with that tone.  “You kicked him under the table to cause distraction.”

“It was not necessary.”

“But you would have.”

“In order to earn your favor and see you to my arms?  Of course I would.”

I doodled aimlessly on his forearm where it curled over my waist.  “Is there any action you would not take to achieve my regard?”

He considered it for a moment.  The sound of his voice pulled me from contemplating the restless darkness behind eyelids.  “Nothing comes to mind.”

“You would remain in Rome while I healed from sword wound,” I tested, “and risk Duro’s life?”

Silence.  Stillness.

My concerns from the night before emerged fully formed from the wreck too much wine had made of me: “Had you and Duro made your way north from Batiatus’ villa rather than taking me south, you would have crossed the Alps before first snowfall.  You would be home now.  You would have spent the winter solstice with your sister and brother-in-law and niece.”

“The journey you speak of,” he slowly responded, “is not without perils.”

I argued: “Donar and many others might have accompanied you and made safe passage.  Agron…”

“You are my heart,” he whispered in German.  Always in German.

“Despite the wrongs I’ve done you?”  I listed them as Duro had the night before, my voice choked and tongue stumbling.  Agron petted my hair until I was finished taking account.

“You act from heart,” he reminded me.  Drew a shaky breath.  “But do you not also place trust in your brothers?”

“Trust,” I repeated.  “With your instruction -- yours and Duro’s -- I am learning.”

Agron pressed dainty kisses to my cheek, my jaw.

I wanted for nothing more than to remain here all day, but my duties would not see to themselves and neither would Agron’s.  With a heavy sigh, I moved to sit up, catching the damp cloth that peeled from my forehead.

Agron asked, “You must piss?”

Now that he made mention of it, yes, very much.  “And knock a fair bit of piss out of others,” I muttered.

Agron chuckled and hugged me back into the bedclothes.  “Piss if you must--”  A whiskery smack of wet lips against my clammy neck.  “--but strike the rest from concern.”

“Hm?”

“Duro volunteered to take on your charge.  He evaluates the recruits.”

I arched a brow.  “What--when was this offer made?”

My lover shrugged a shoulder.  “This morning.  He has never seen you made so unsteady from wine.”

And apparently, I had slumbered through this unprecedented generosity, but that begged the question-- “What hour is it?”

“Noon.”

Noon.  Fuck.

Agron grinned at me.

I slumped, elbows braced upon knees.  “And what of Spartacus?” I challenged.  I may be resigned to my own uselessness today, but that did not require equal sacrifice from Agron.  “How will he receive hourly reports if his German general lounges in bed all day?”

“He will fucking fetch them himself.”

“So be it,” I agreed, immeasurably pleased to have Agron completely to myself.

I rose, pissed, washed face and hands, rinsed mouth, and then crawled back into Agron’s arms.  “I yet owe a prize to you, victor,” I hummed, eyes already drooping in spite of unfinished duty.

He nuzzled into my loosened hair, flexed his bare arms around my form, lipped at my ear.  “I am satisfied.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in Part 5: The Path, Chapter 7 (Duro’s POV), FuckinGauls (a.k.a kitt_yrose) pointed out (very rightly!) that whenever Nasir takes off to handle things on his own, Agron and Duro are left with the impression that Nasir doesn’t trust them to have his back. So I really wanted to address that.
> 
> Castus doesn’t get the crap beaten out of him by Agron… simply because Duro got there first. And drunk!Nasir punching Castus was probably like a kitten swatting at a butterfly. You just KNOW that Castus thought it was super cute and now he wants to take Nasir home even more than he did before. Ugh.
> 
> But let’s not underestimate Duro. He’s a smart dude and if he can handle Sedullus’ ego, he can definitely handle Castus’ infatuation with Nasir. Oh, yeah, Duro’s got this. Trust him. (^_~)


	3. Distrust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: reference to SEXYTIMES

Eyes.

I could feel gazes following me on Metapontum’s streets, along its harbor, in its winter-hardened fields.  Not so surprising given that I somehow stood among Gannicus, Crixus, and Spartacus in notoriety.  Some escaped slaves even recalled Oenomaus’ name from his battle against legendary Theokoles, the Shadow of Death.

Though I was honestly perplexed that such fame was foisted upon me, a man who had appeared a mere three times upon the sands.  And I was further puzzled that the sight of me did not disappoint what were surely high expectations.

In spite of chronic bafflement, I had become accustomed to stares.

And yet… this attention seemed different.  Somehow.

A tingling awareness that tightened and tickled skin between shoulder blades.

I made attempt to sweep the rebel encampment with surreptitious gaze, but there were too many faces turned my way.  Mine and Agron’s.  The sight of us together was not at all unusual, most especially upon path leading toward German campfires and tents with morning meal in hand.  But for every man or woman who now accepted the sight of us as commonplace, two more seemed to arrive with each passing day.

Agron nudged my arm with elbow and quirked brow in question when I looked up.

Summoning a wry smile, I mused, “I was right to hold concern -- your form draws far too much appreciation.”

He chuckled, a reflexive jolt of hilarity.  “Says the man whose form I worshiped--”  Bright-eyed gaze skipped over my shoulders and chest, gleaming with recalled delights.  “--until past midnight.”

“Devotion well received,” I replied, pushing the words through a helplessly wide smile.  Agron had indeed been… thorough.

“Perhaps I might make additional offering?”

Ha!  He spoke as if commenting on fair weather, but I was not fooled.  “An offering in exchange for what service?”

“Service?”  Agron squinted, curious but also wary.  There was no need for the latter: it had been months since I had last stood a house slave.  Under so many watchful eyes, I would provide example for how to shed those mannerisms.

“Are the gods not worshiped in exchange for their favor?”

Agron stopped and faced me.  “You admit at last that you stand a god.”

I punched his shoulder.  “Were I one, you would surely bear a mark for that.”

“Hm.  I raise no objection to one more.”

I felt heat suffuse my cheeks.  With regards to marks, yes, he did bear many: scratches upon his hips and outer thighs carved by clawing hands and fingernails; bitten flesh near neck and upon chest that would show as crescent-shaped bruises on the morrow; a raw patch of skin just inside knee where I had sucked hard as I’d trapped his leg over right shoulder and thrust slow and deep and hard into his heat until his eyes had rolled up into his skull and senseless sounds had puffed from between slack lips.

The bed linens would require a thorough wash.

“Then I shall consider one more,” I replied, resuming our trek, “and its optimal placement.”

From beneath lowered lashes, I caught the twitch of his full-body shiver.  Fuck.  That I could so affect this man was a constant source of amazement.

“Late!” Duro bellowed upon spotting us.  He grinned from where he sat at fire’s edge, breaking his fast.

“Delayed,” I corrected.

“Break no words on the cause,” my young brother loudly demanded.  “This excuse I’ve no desire to know.”

At this point, I would have kicked Duro’s foot while Agron whapped him playfully upon back of head, but my gaze was caught and snagged upon the delighted and unfortunately familiar smile of a certain Numidian.

Castus.

“Who is this?” Agron demanded, jerking unshaven chin toward the recruit I had assessed only days before.

“This,” Duro replied gaily, clamping a hand upon the man’s shoulder, “is my friend Castus.  He trains under the Veteran.  On Nasir’s recommendation.”

Agron hitched his brows at me, demanding explanation.

I huffed.  “My reasoning escapes me.  Though I do recall that the Veteran has taught me many underhanded schemes which one man may employ against another,” I explained with forced lightness of tone, “in combat.”

Castus breathed a laugh.  “The Greek’s skill grinds me into the dust.”  Tucking his chin and casting twinkling, dark eyes up at me, he teased, “And administers punishment for tumbling Nasir in the ring.”

Fucking Numidian!  His words fell a far distance from actual events.  Yet any correction given would merely prove that our fight -- and he by extension -- had been memorable.  Instead, I ground the truth between molars.

Duro rolled his eyes.  “You speak as though you believe you deserve kinder treatment.”

Agron crossed his arms and turned to me.  “Nasir?”

I smiled up at him.  “Hm?”

“This puddle of rancid puke says he tumbled you and you make no reply?”

Palms up, I admitted, “I tumbled while assessing recruits, yes.”  Tilting head and squinting, I speculated of the man in question: “Who I faced at the time I cannot state with certainty.”

Castus shook his head in playful disbelief, still smiling.

Duro pressed, “You do not deny that this man here dropped you flat upon back?”

“I do not deny that it may have been a man such as him.”

“Goatfuck,” Duro swore and then, looking to Castus, sighed.  “Our bet is void, then.”

“Your bet,” Agron sneered, taking a seat across from Castus.

It did not escape me that Agron’s position gave him a clear corridor to Duro, who boyishly confessed: “I wagered that Nasir would call this grinning fool a liar, and he wagered that our Syrian brother would boast of besting him thrice.”

I snorted.  I had bested him _****four****_  times.

“A fucking stupid bet,” Agron opined, staring hard across the fire at Castus, “to place coin on what words a man utters.”

Duro held up his hands in surrender.  “I agree, brother.  But I would yet hold advantage.”

“What advantage is that, Duro?” I inquired pleasantly, bracing myself against the metaphorical corner I was backed into.

“Well, your former charge,” my young brother said, “required acute memory, did it not?  And you would not speak falsehood to your brothers.  Therefore.”  Duro shrugged as though point had been well and truly made.  Well, I supposed it had.  After all, I had not lied; I did not know who this man was, though the list of who he was _****not****_  lengthened with every encounter.

“Therefore he warms bench beside you for what fucking purpose?” Agron irritably inquired.

“To enjoy ambiance of German camp,” Duro announced grandly.

 _ ** **Ambiance?****  _ Duro was a constant source of surprise this morning.

My lover snorted.  “And the qualities that mark us as such would rub off of your elbow and onto his?”

I coughed a chuckle.  “Though I do not hail from lands east of the Rhine, I am undoubtedly made German by similar means.”

Agron giggled and pressed a quick, fierce kiss to my temple.  When Duro held up a hand in silent plea for me to stay further words, I merely leaned over and smacked my palm against his.  He pointed a finger at me in warning.  I grinned and palmed Agron’s bare thigh.

Duro shook his head and hastily explained, “I would have Castus learn of us and our ways in order to better craft insults.”  He playfully elaborated to his new friend: “The ones you uttered upon our introduction are hardly worth the spit to speak them.”

“I admit,” Castus spoke, “my knowledge of your people is as limited as Rome’s.”

Agron stiffened.

I squeezed his thigh and gave recommendation: “Begin with goats.  Duro will gladly explain all.”

“You--fucking--goatfuck.”

I tutted.  “To call your own brother a goat!  Duro, for shame.”

“For pain,” Agron bit out through a menacing smile that I rather enjoyed.

“Yes, yes, embrace the pain.  I’ve not forgotten.”  Duro’s gaze flicked from Agron to me and back again.  “And neither have you.”

My lover’s jaw clenched.

“Embrace the pain?” Castus interjected, seemingly unaffected by the tension.  “This is German wisdom.”

“Gladiator,” I corrected.  “Had you ever trained in a ludus -- it is truth you would already have made acquaintance with.”

“Should you seek to learn it, I would offer instruction,” Agron offered with terrifying eagerness.

Castus lifted both hands.  “Perhaps once I have… gleaned all I can from the lesson Nasir gave on the subject.”

When I had fucking sat upon his chest.  “Turn attention toward what the Veteran would teach,” I advised.  “My part is done.”

“It has just begun,” the Numidian insisted, “for will we not entwine our fates one day very soon?”  He smiled winningly at Agron and added silkily, “Upon field of battle.”

Of all the audacious, preening, ass-licking--!

I shot to my feet and spun, cupping Agron’s jaw in my hand and kissing him thoroughly and in full view of all.  Pulling away with reluctance, I murmured, “Regretfully, I must see to duties this day.”

“Until midday meal,” Agron agreed, slowly thumbing my cheek in a long caress.

“Duro, upon whom do you inflict your presence this morning?”

“Ha!  Your Syrians would learn the ax.”

“Gods save us,” I muttered.  “For every limb, hand, finger, foot, and toe lost, I will claim one of yours in payment.”

Agron snickered.  “Consider the lesson content carefully, brother.”

“Oh, yes.  Perhaps I shall tell of your charming encounters with goats after all!”

I kicked Duro’s foot in passing.  “In which case, I shall next break words with you in the afterlife, little brother.”

“I--what--it is you who is the little brother!”

I waved over my shoulder, caressing my hand through Agron’s short hair in passing.  Perhaps they watched me walk away; I did not glance back.

The feeling of being studied persisted.

I blamed Castus.  And, regarding his new station as Duro’s _****friend,****  _I had much to say.

At first opportunity -- as we waited for Agron to finish breaking words with Spartacus and join us for midday meal -- I pulled Duro aside and hissed, “Do I imagine you broke words with that shit smear Castus in the hall last night?”

Thankfully, the Numidian was yet enduring a sound thrashing under the Veteran’s tutelage.  Once released from the Greek’s charge, he would surely attach himself to Duro’s side not unlike a fucking shadow.

Duro giggled, high and frantic.  “Oh, your ire -- so precious and most well received!”

I frowned.

“No, you do not imagine,” Duro answered.  “Nor do I imagine that the slippery fuck was in the process of carrying you off.”

“Have you fucked a goat to the point blindness?” I objected, my very being jolting with denial even as I hazily recalled a charming smile and flattering words.  A firm grip upon my wrist and upper arm.  Fuck.  Still, I insisted: “Your eyes deceived you.  What words could he possibly say that would be so noteworthy?”

“An apt inquiry, brother,” Duro agreed, hints of acuity which I often forgot he possessed seeping through.  “For I doubt little escapes the shit’s mouth that is worthy of any note at all.”

“Yet you embrace his friendship,” I assessed.

Duro drew a deep breath and blew it out, fast and blustery.  “He is a determined, underhanded fuck.  I would know his intentions.”

Intentions that would sooner be revealed should the man remain in close proximity.  Yet should he prove as treacherous as Ashur, Duro may be in grave danger.  He would need his brothers, then.  Agron and I must not permit Duro to be alone with the Numidian.  So be it.

I turned attention to other matters: “Do I imagine we quarreled?  In the hall last night -- you and I?”

“No.  You do not imagine.”

“Apologies--”

“No.”  This time, when Duro lifted a hand to refuse my words, he also hunched down and I was reminded of that moment beside ludus water cache when he had bid me to believe in my own increasing skill, face test of the Brotherhood, and _****fight****_  for Agron’s sake as much as my own.

Duro said quietly, “It is I who spoke out of turn.  You--you are fucking stubborn.  A thing Agron and I much admire.  My complaints -- they concern the past.  We’ve enough worries at present.  Let us focus upon those and the future to follow.”

The future to follow.

Follow, yes.  Just as eight of my little monsters readily followed me from Simon’s infirmary the next morning.  While Duro and Agron conducted morning training beyond city walls, I intended to see the domus Agron and I had claimed -- and often welcomed Duro to take rest within -- set to rights: floors swept, basins and bath tub scrubbed, furniture polished, mattresses aired, pillows and cushions fluffed, linens laundered.

In exchange for their assistance, I gave them a lesson in how to angle and brace spears against advancing Roman lines.  By the time the washed bed linens that hung upon line had dried in the cool breeze and direct sunlight, my little Syrians were doubly fierce.  And I was made doubly proud of them.  How odd; I’d assumed I could be no more amazed by the resilient strength of these boys and girls, and yet I was.

Of course, as easily as they inspired me to surpass the limits of my own heart, they also motivated equal measures of exasperation as they grew listless in anticipation for midday meal.

“Emesa!  Cease stuffing cheeks with candied dates!”  She paused, eyes wide and hand incriminatingly immersed in clay jar containing the sweets I accused her of stealing.  “Little thief!” I scolded, herding her toward the basin to wash her sticky fingers.  She moved stiffly, clearly braced for a beating.  I swallowed back my frustration and teased: “That’s three times now.  Upon the fourth, I shall nibble off your fingers.”

I mimed the promised punishment until she giggled.

And then I went to shoo Oruros and Thelmenis off of the unmade bed where they had been jumping up and down with enough force to shake the entire domus.  How the bed remained intact I had no notion.

Strict supervision was required to see the linens brought down from the line without dragging through the dirt… or being twisted up and used as a jump rope by Theleda and Arias.

I was forced to credit the lingering remnants of Tiberius with greeting my Germans with aplomb rather than sobs of relief.

“Where are the little monsters?” Duro bellowed, thumping me on the back as he charged over the threshold -- absent knocking the dust from his filthy sandals first -- and began hunting for squealing Syrians.  Agron pecked a kiss upon my lips and then promptly scooped up Emesa as she raced past.

“Agron!” she bellowed right in his ear.

“Good afternoon, fearsome creature.  Did you tend your charge and assist Nasir?” he inquired seriously.

She nodded.  Solemn and sincere.  “I fearsome assist!”

I rolled my eyes.

“Assist Duro,” Agron directed her, placing her little feet upon the tiles.  She sprinted for the backyard where I could hear the clack and click of wooden kindling knocking together in a spontaneous game of sparring.  Someone would surely receive splinters.  And Duro could pick them free of flesh himself.

“You fared well,” Agron observed.

“And with such ease that you will surely wish to trade charge in a fortnight.”

“Unlikely.”

Hm.  So I had not fooled him with my show of calm demeanor.  Pity.

“Gratitude,” Agron spoke, smoothing wispy strands of hair back from my brow.

“Stuff yourself with fucking gratitude,” I retorted, smirking, “and offer worthy rewards.”

Beaming, he crouched and nuzzled against my smile, tongue petting my taut lower lip until my own ventured forth to guide his within--

“Ow!”  A wail of pain swiftly followed exclamation.  A clatter as kindling sticks were dropped to ground.

I leaned away, biting back a sigh just as Duro stumbled up to the kitchen threshold, bracing himself in doorway to frantically report: “Oruros bleeds from hand!”

“Then pluck splinter from it, rinse wound with vinegar, and bind with cloth.”  I pointed him toward the pantry.

Duro scowled.  “They are your Syrians,” he grumbled.

“Which you damage,” I stated as Agron informed: “Your future wife will stand impressed with your skills in healing.”

Duro glared, head bobbling and lips sneering in silent retort, but he collected the pot of vinegar and cut cloth as directed.  Agron and I herded the other children into a group as Duro tended to his patient.

Noting the boy’s tear-streaked cheeks, I wondered quietly, “Do we intervene?”

Agron glanced toward Duro where he knelt in the dirt babbling in a desperate attempt to distract or perhaps soothe the temperamental boy.  “Have you taught the little monsters how to separate a man from his cock?”

“Not as yet.”

“He’ll be fine.”

My bark of laughter startled Oruros and Duro took opportunity to yank splinter from flesh.  Oruros gasped, glared at Duro, and then subsided under our brother’s charming grin.

Once we were underway, Oruros’ bandaged finger catching the noon sunlight, I bumped Duro’s arm.  “And you yet have flesh upon shins.”

“A blessing,” Agron sarcastically drawled.

“Goatfuck,” Duro muttered.  “Dangerous beasts, are they not?”

“You and Agron stood apart?” I dared to inquire in utmost innocence.  “Perfectly tame, domesticated little boys?”

Agron scrubbed at his own face, but could not wipe the guilty grin from expression.  Duro snorted.  “Ha!  Such wit, little brother.  No other’s jests hold equal to yours.”

“Among other things unparalleled,” I boasted simply to provide Agron opportunity to muse aloud: “I stand a fortunate man indeed.”

“In _****words,****_  at the moment,” I corrected with relish.  “Later, perhaps, in _****deed.”****_

“Ugh.  Where is the food?  I fully encourage you both to fill mouth with gruel and spare my ears your drivel.”

“Drivel?” I repeated aghast.

Agron explained: “The crust you find upon Duro’s chin every morning.”

Ah.  Drivel -- dribble.  An endearing play on words.

“I--that’s not--fuck you both!” Duro proclaimed and Oruros spun around in a gleeful circle, shouting: “Fuck you both!”

Gods save us.

“Agron!”

My brothers and I pulled up, spinning toward the call.  Mira waved from nearby street corner, likely having just stopped by at our domus to find it empty.  “Spartacus would have words.”

Agron grumbled, “Why does he not fetch me himself?”

“Oenomaus makes demands on his time,” she answered grinning widely, “for training long overdue.”

“Ah, fuck,” Duro bemoaned.  “And we do not stand witness!”

“Grounds for demanding a match with the Thracian yourself,” I appeased him and Duro relented with an easy grin.

“Heh.  Right you are.”  Thelmenis, noticing Duro’s absence, raced back, grabbed his wrist, and tugged him forward.  Duro went, laughing with elation at his popularity.

Agron’s palm bussed my arm.  “Should I not join you for evening meal in camp…”

“I remain with Duro.”  And Castus by extension.

My lover frowned and, tucking chin, beseeched in lowered voice, “Do not find yourself alone with Castus.”

I was curious as to Agron’s reasons -- surely Duro had not spoken of the man’s attempt to woo me in the hall.  Had he, Castus would be little more than a stain upon the cobblestones.  I tilted brows in inquiry.

“He holds intentions toward you.”

I supposed that had been easy enough to discern at yesterday’s morning meal.  I snorted.  “And I place much importance on empty flattery and charming smiles?  Do not forget my years spent standing witness to Roman ambition.”

Agron smiled softly, sadly.  “I do not forget.  And I know your heart.  But I do not trust him.”

“Neither do I.”

Amazingly, that admission cheered Agron and I belatedly realized he’d held doubts over whether we were of the same mind on the matter.  Well, in this instance, we were.

Cupping his cheek, I bid him, “Rescue Spartacus from Oenomaus’ clutches and then seek your brothers.”

With a nod and quick peck to my lips, Agron headed toward Mira, who had taken to leaning upon nearest wall, arms crossed and lips curled in an entertained smile.  At next opportunity, I would inquire what she found so amusing about a mundane scene between two free men.

I rushed to catch up to Duro and the children, pleased that they had only turned one corner during my farewell to Agron.  I did not speak of words exchanged, instead focusing on returning my charges to their home where we took midday meal.  And then Duro and I lingered to rough-house and play and embrace and tickle the ones who had remained behind.  Duro sang.  I attempted a game of tag.

Simon’s team of healers seemed glad for the distraction we provided, easily ignoring the noise as they reclined upon veranda and balcony.

“Nasir, have you a moment?” Simon asked and I untangled myself from small, grasping hands, pointing them toward Duro and grinning when the German was tackled from behind.

“I do now.  Speak, friend.”

Simon limped toward the herb stores and indicated several ingredients of dwindling quantities.  The most notable were opium and silphium, for the relief of pain and prevention of pregnancy, respectively.  Concerns that, as a body slave, I’d once kept in mind for the people under my care.  Managing a rebellion, it seemed, was not wholly dissimilar, and the acquisition of these substances, given the identity of their purveyors, an unfortunate necessity.

“I shall see it done,” I promised and collected Duro, who had somehow managed to get all of the children to lie down for afternoon rest.

“Must we go now?” Duro whined.

“Yes.”

“Ugh.  You abandon me to my doom and now deny me rest.”

“The rebellion denies us rest.  I merely stand as messenger.”

His arms flapped in defeat.  “So fucking be it.  Where do we go?”

“I would break words with Diotimos regarding supplies.”

Duro’s chin jerked, attention snapping upon me.  “You would give coin to pirates?”

“Were there a man or woman of Metapontum who farmed the ingredients Simon seeks, I would gladly conduct business with them.”

Duro exhaled heavily.  “Well.  At least that little Greek shit will benefit.”

As the man who would remove distasteful task of negotiating with Cilicians from our hands, yes, he would earn some coin… which he would likely share with his friend Sibyl.  It had not escaped my notice that he had seen her garbed for training before selecting new clothing and sandals for himself.

I thumped Duro on the arm.  “Come, brother.  The sooner we see to task, the sooner I shall send you ass-first into the dirt of the arena.”

“Ha!  Grand boast, little brother.”

Diotimos was surprised to see us enter his humble, harbor-side shop.  “What brings you to my threshold?”

“Your threshold, yes, but no further,” Duro mumbled, choosing to lurk in shadowed doorway.

Only the quick glance which the Greek sent toward my disgruntled German betrayed the fact that he had heard the words.

Ignoring Duro’s sullen pout, I told Diotimos, “Our healers would replenish supplies before the vernal equinox.”

“The vernal equinox?”  Diotimos mused, “Is there some event I am unaware of?”

Quickly realizing my error, I affected a lazy shrug.  “Should there be, I stand in equal ignorance.  That is the estimation I was given.  Presumably, stores will be exhausted shortly thereafter.”

“Hm.”  Diotimos nodded.  “Name the items and quantities required, and I shall see to their arrival.”

“And increase in price,” my young brother accused.  I squinted at him; I doubted he was as bothered as he appeared.  This was a bargaining tactic, then.  As I made request, he presented resistance as counterbalance.

Diotimos spoke no denial.  “Such is business.  Should you wish to negotiate with the importers yourself, Heracleo’s ship is yet moored in Metapontum’s dock.  I would make introduction for a nominal fee of--”

Movement on the street snagged Duro’s gaze and he leaped fully into the shop.  I was at his side in a moment, leaning close and following his intent stare toward a familiar figure.  I caught but a glimpse as the man disappeared within the wharf hall where gambling, fucking, and wine could be found in such abundance that the hall where German and Gallic warriors mingled was a pristine temple by comparison.

Duro and I shared a look.

“I would not recommend the wine,” Diotimos remarked, reminding us both of his presence.

“Do you frequent that place?” I asked, an idea forming.

He defended, crossing arms over narrow chest, “To seek business opportunities.”

I dug into fold of cloth along my belt for a few coins.  “Then seek another.  Do not mention our names.  We would know the activities of a man just entered.”  I described him.

Diotimos weighed the coins in his grasp.  “And where do I make report to you?”

“Here,” Duro replied.  “We would fucking wait.”

The Greek tensed.

“I do not believe this task would place you in any danger,” I assured.

“No more so than usual,” Duro added almost gently.

Diotimos nodded.  “Then I return as swiftly as I am able.”

He shut the shop door behind him.  There was a soft scuff -- a sign being hung upon the handle to announce the absence of proprietor -- and gritty _****click!****  _of iron key in lock.

I made myself comfortable upon nearest table, shoving stacks of cloth aside to accommodate the width of ass.  Duro meandered restlessly, picking up a knife here, a cup there… hooking his fingers into various baskets and pulling them out from beneath tables for inspection.  He wrinkled his nose at a tangle of worn sandals before kicking the lot back from where he’d retrieved it.

“Do I imagine,” I began quietly, “that I caught sight of Castus entering that building?”

Duro shook his head.  “If you do, it is a vision I shared.”

“Tell me what you’ve spoken of in his presence,” I demanded, voice sharp with increasing concern.

Duro barked a laugh.  “I did not nearly spill Spartacus’ plans for the equinox as you just did.”

My lips pursed over gritted teeth.  “Diotimos remains unaware.”

“It is unlike you to be so careless with words,” Duro observed.  Smirking, he teased, “Are thoughts preoccupied with a freshly made bed and absent lover?”

I returned his jest: “You would learn what I plan to do with both?”

“Ugh.  Fuck.”

I snorted a laugh; his words were both a refusal and answer to query.

Duro leaned against table at back, grasping the edge with both hands.  His shoulders slumped as he studied the ceiling.  I waited.

“Castus,” Duro finally spoke, “has fixed his intent upon you.”

I grimaced.  “You made no effort to dissuade him?”

“What goatfuckery do you utter?  Of course I did!”

“And yet he persists.”

“And were he but in pursuit of a fuck, his attention would have drifted elsewhere.”

I considered that.  “Does he seek vengeance, then?”

“Can such a smile conceal venomous thoughts?”

My chin swiveled, uncertain.

“His interest may be lingering,” Duro warned, frowning down at his hairy shins.  “When he saw you with Agron in the hall, he expressed much disappointment at what my brother’s form indicated of your preference.”

“My pref--my preference,” I stuttered.  How could Duro not know?  Had Agron never spoken of it?  “I hold preference for no form.”  Duro looked up and I away.  “Your brother stands as the first and only lover I have known.  He provides me freedom to choose.  Freedom to refuse.  I would embrace death over return to charge as body slave of noble Roman dominus, but I would endure it for the sake of Agron’s life.  And yours.”

A long moment passed before I found the courage to face Duro’s response.  When I did, I found him gaping at me.  “Neither cunt nor cock… but Agron?”

Hunching into my seat, I gave correction: “My Germans.  You underestimate the true worth of what you have given me -- both of you.”

Duro turned away on a sniffle, rubbing a grungy forearm over his nose.  “Likewise, brother,” he garbled, offering a teary-eyed glance and wide, helpless grin.

“What would your mother say,” I heard myself jest, “to discover she has somehow borne yet another son?”

“Ha!  She will love you,” Duro insisted in a rare moment of intense sobriety, “as a son.”

I had no response to such a declaration or truth implied: not only did my Germans’ sister Rikke and niece Linde yet live but their mother as well.  How could she be pleased to learn that her elder son had given his heart to a man?  Was it not the elder son’s duty to marry and sire children?  Perhaps things were different east of the Rhine.  I could only hope.

Though, such hope assumed I would live long enough to see it.

In the meantime, I prompted Duro to describe the land, the villages, the people.  I asked for no specifics.  Nothing that a Roman would take interest in should I be taken captive again.  But as Oenomaus and Rabanus yet continued my training, I doubted it would happen a second time.  They taught not how to fight, but how to win.  For Duro and Agron’s sake -- for the sake of my Syrians and so many others -- I must win.

Duro and I listened to the sound of many approaching footsteps, but all turned away upon sight of closed door and sign.  Some were desperate or stubborn enough to try the handle and bang upon the door.  Duro and I waited them out.

Finally, footsteps approached, paused upon stoop, and did not turn away.  The lock clicked and Diotimos flipped the crudely made sign off of door’s handle.

“Your man,” he spoke without fanfare, “held conference with Adherbal, a Numidian who sails under the Cilician Heracleo.”

“Conference?” Duro pressed.  “Was coin exchanged?”

“Words only.”

I asked, “Heracleo’s trade?”

Diotimos snorted.  “He’s a fucking pirate.  He trades whatever earns coin.”

Duro put out a hand to draw Diotimos’ attention.  “Their words?  Heard you any of them?”

“Adherbal spoke one I recognized,” the Greek wearily admitted.

“Diotimos, for Sibyl’s sake and the sake of all who follow our cause,” I implored before Duro threatened to squeeze the word from his gullet.

“Spartacus,” he told us with visible reluctance.  “Adherbal spoke in regards to Spartacus.  Urgently.  As if giving instruction.”

“And did the other man -- the man described -- accept?”

“He fucking nodded head and departed with determined countenance.”

Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.  Not only did pirates desire something of our leader, but Castus -- the man I had glimpsed entering the hall -- counted himself in league with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, Castus has NOT told anyone that he’s a pirate.
> 
> When Duro comments that Agron hasn’t forgotten the saying “embrace the pain” he’s talking about the night Nasir didn’t return from his first match in the arena and Duro roared at Agron (in German) to embrace the pain for Nasir’s sake (The Path, Chapter 7 -- flashback section). Here in this chapter, Duro is telling Agron to shut up and go with the flow for Nasir’s sake so that Duro can figure out what Castus’ deal is.
> 
> It occurred to me that APMF!Nasir’s transition to a gladiator would change his interactions with Castus. For one thing, Nasir never tried to assassinate Spartacus and was never (on the verge of being) a pariah. In this fic series, Nasir proved his worth when he interrupted the demonstration at Numerius’ toga virilis. As far as Nasir has seen, Castus has done nothing to prove himself -- nothing that shows he values anything above the satisfaction of his own desires.
> 
> I really enjoyed writing Duro in this fic because his people skills really shine as he “manages” Castus in an attempt to figure out what the guy’s endgame is.


	4. Loss of Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE (violence), DEATH
> 
> EDIT: The battle between Crixus and Sedullus was expanded on July 22, 2019.

Training.

The plain rang with impact of metal and wood and bodies striking dirt.  A cacophony that echoed in ears even during dead of night.

In truth, I would be adrift without the daily promise of testing my skills in battle.  Perhaps Gannicus would agree with my sentiment.  Some days previous, he had taken to evaluating recruits.  I had glimpsed Saxa’s astounded expression at discovering the Celt not only sober but covered in sweat and dust before noon.  He and Sibyl made a good team -- many hopelessly skittish men and women responded well to her gentle encouragement -- and with Saxa’s arrival, they had gained a fearsome fighter who gleefully pushed the overconfident to their limits.

As I passed the territory the three of them claimed for sword sports, I idly wondered at Saxa’s lack of hostility toward Sibyl.  But then again, Saxa had made little effort to learn common tongue and Gannicus was a gregarious fellow.  Their arrangement would have grown tiresome absent words to build further intimacy.  Perhaps Sibyl’s influence gave them another means to reach one another.

At next opportunity, I might ask my Celtic friend.  It was long past time we broke words.

Today, however, I sought another bearer of the mark of the Brotherhood.

The Veteran said nothing as I stepped up to his side and cast gaze over the recruits he was currently putting through a typical yet grueling series of drills.  I suspected this was the true source of the man’s enjoyment in life; he’d conducted morning and afternoon exercises much the same within ludus.  A harsher taskmaster than Oenomaus when it came to repetitive forms.

“Castus!” the Greek barked and the indicated man seamlessly took over direction, calling out direction as he moved with precision despite the fact that he must be exhausted after an entire morning under the Veteran’s merciless instruction.

“He yet lingers,” I remarked, both impressed and disturbed by the man’s persistence.

The Veteran mumbled, “The smiling Numidian shit you sent me makes progress.  Though, can he be trusted remains to be seen.”

“The same can be said of many who now count themselves among our numbers.”

The old Greek winced.  “That’s fucking truth.”

Indeed.

Duro and I yet kept watchful gaze trained upon Castus.  Neither one of us had broken words with Agron regarding our discovery of Castus’ association with a man from Heracleo’s crew.  Agron would have slain the Numidian on sight regardless of opportunity presented to confuse and mislead our enemies.

The afternoon Diotimos had given his report on Castus and Adherbal and the subject of their private conversation, Duro had provided distraction for Agron while I had sought audience with Spartacus.

“If the Cilicians do not move to capture or kill you, then they sell what information they can gather to paying customers,” I had summarized.  “Can you think of anyone more likely to offer gold for advance news of your movements than Roman senators and praetors?”

“I cannot.”  He’d pressed lips together, calculated, concluded: “So we provide misinformation.”

It had been clear from Spartacus’ frown that he’d despised the necessity of duplicity.  I had therefore given the response my lover would have undoubtedly offered: “Vipio.”

“Had I but taken a personal interest in his training, the man might have proved himself great asset.”

“Or he may have proven himself an assassin.”

“Your words ring as if echoing from Agron’s mind.”

“I claim neither mystical ability nor subordination of will -- I count the two of you among the men I know best.”

“Through and through,” the Thracian had admitted and had, by all appearances, accepted my unsolicited counsel.

Later that same night, when Agron had quietly confided Spartacus’ plans to misdirect saboteurs and spies, I had listened and nodded and voiced queries.  I had given no indication of prior awareness.  Agron stood as one of Spartacus’ most trusted generals, not I.  Nor was it a post I held any desire for.

We had additionally recruited Duro, Crixus, Naevia, and Mira to spread word of Spartacus’ coming “plans.”

“First, we will move east to Brundusium,” the Thracian had outlined, “to employ a fleet of ships.  I would see those who do not fight set foot upon the Greek homeland.  Then, we move quickly to reach the capital of Rome itself by midsummer… and lay siege to its populace.”

Ambitious undertakings.  And completely false.

But fully believable.  Or so Nemetes’ continued arguments indicated.  The man was persistent in voicing objection.  I could hear his bleating from where I now stood beside the Veteran, through the milling crowds and over the sound of Castus’ voice: “We linger here with arm up ass while Rome readies its legions!  If Spartacus hesitates to lead, let us follow a man who feels no such fear!”

By the gods.  The noisy shit adored the sound of his own voice.  I had heard the same argument in German.  Today, it was shouted in common tongue.  Had the worthless puke known Greek, he would have vomited those words as well.

Agron’s snarled reply was lost to me due to distance, but I had no reason to think his response differed from previous cautioning: “Trust in Spartacus.  Above all else, he acts to preserve our lives -- even yours -- so that each man and woman who desires revenge upon Rome may take it.  Those who stand with Spartacus will spill the blood of Romans.”

Yet some seemed determined to doubt.  An unfortunate byproduct of the lies we exported to Rome via Heracleo’s ship, which had left port the day before yesterday.  I burned -- just as Agron and Duro surely burned -- to confess the scheme.  But it was too soon.  Too many lives depended on the success of our maneuvers.

The Veteran shook his head.  “That worthless fuck Nemetes.  Were that he trained under my hand -- I would set him to rights.”

I laughed.  “And I would pay coin to witness.”

The Greek chuckled.  “Opportunity for wealth… lost.  Bah!  Let him toss himself to Hades’ doorstep, though I doubt his shade holds enough value to bother with.”

I startled at his certain tone.  “You hold no doubts -- regarding Spartacus’ intentions.”

The older man gave me a wry look.  “Because you remain calm.”  At my questioning look, he elaborated: “The Brotherhood have seen you absent hope.  The days preceding Calavius’ funeral games.  Even a blind man would have taken note of your panic.”

“Thoughts I gave no voice to.”

“A fighter speaks with blocks and blows.  Your confidence was shaken.”  He pinned me with his gaze.  “Now, it is not.  Any man with sense holds no concern lest you crack under strain.”

Well.  Fuck my ass.  How many others judged the stability and security of our situation by my composure or lack of it?

A solid clap to my shoulder.  “Cease stalling,” the Veteran scolded, “and submit to test of skill.”

“Stalling!” I squawked. “I merely admire my German’s form.”  Indeed, I could appreciate a fine view from this vantage point.

The Veteran grunted.  “Oh, to be young and fucked senseless.”

“Do you not enjoy the latter with regularity?  Whatever became of that girl in Anxia?”

A truly disturbing grin creased the man’s face as he dismissed his trainees with a bellow: “Fuck off and clear the ring!”

Wooden training swords clattered to the ground as everyone leaped to obey, though most lingered to gawk as I scooped up wooden blade and shield and took position.  Castus’ over-bright smile stood out from the crowd, buzzing as a hopeful, hovering insect.

Setting aside concern for the weight of unblinking eyes, I focused upon opponent.  The Veteran would be no less brutal or ruthless than he had been the week before or the week before that.  He took it upon himself to regularly evaluate all those who now bore -- or, in my case, had once borne -- the mark of the Brotherhood.

It was understood that as many of our brothers as possible would be in attendance, eager to see how long the Veteran’s current target would last against him this time.  My own endurance had been gradually lengthening.  The odds favored an even stronger showing today.

But today the men that I had trained alongside in Batiatus’ ludus would also be watching for any indication that I lacked confidence in Spartacus’ plans.  I was fortunate indeed to hold genuine faith, otherwise, Nemetes might lose coin to those daring to favor long odds.

I smirked, imagining the shit-stirring fuck capitulating to Agron’s argument for sole purpose of making haste to solicit wagers.  Opportunistic flea.  Regardless of how their separation had come about, Saxa was well rid of him.

“Do you require a moment,” the Veteran lightly jeered, “to bolster courage with pleasant thoughts?”

“Is not any man who faces your grizzled features in need of them?”

He laughed.  “Advantage hard earned.  Begin!”

I charged him, shield forward and sword dropping back in preparation of overhead strike--

But I dropped flat, skidding feet first toward his ankles--

Tangled limbs--

Rolled--

He fell hard on a bitten-off curse.

I wheezed with laughter as I gained feet at safe distance from immediate retaliation.

“And now it is your turn,” I blithely invited.  “Begin!”

He led with sword thrust and then--

_****Smash!** ** _

The force of shield-to-shield spun me halfway around and no I would not present back to this wily fuck.  I fell back in a controlled roll, rising onto knees with sword angled to catch likely blow--

_****Whap!** ** _

A blow to my flank, not deep-hitting due to presence of shield resulting in deflection.

I leaped forward, pommel-enforced fist crashing against unshaven cheek--

Shield-to-chest--

I staggered back into optimal range for killing blow--

_****Clack!** ** _

Successful block.  I spun inward--

_****Crack!** ** _

Shield-against-blade and the Veteran gave ground.

I kicked at his supporting foot--

He jogged back.  Grinned.  Challenged.  “You--” the Vetran accused “--hold back.  For benefit of showing skill to your fucking Germans, eh?”

I did not deny my motives but-- “How many times must I remind you, old man?  I only fuck one of them.”

“At a time.”

“At all, you daft Greek.”

“Pay no heed to his envy!” Duro crowed, followed by a telltale yelp and Agron’s bark of “Close shit-spewing mouth!”

“I offer encouragement!”

“You interrupt Nasir!”

I laughed.  Ah, so my Germans had arrived.  I told the Veteran, “And now I make genuine effort.”

I did.  I unleashed speed.  Controlled spins.  Kicks.  Elbow thrusts.  Vicious and precise and timed with anticipation of openings.

Many of my hits struck target.

Many of the Veteran’s did as well.

We would both walk away bruised with scraped knees and skinned knuckles.

From the sympathetic sounds of gathered crowd -- cheers, roars, and reflexive cringes -- we offered a worthwhile showing of ferocity and skill.

The match ended with our blades and shields lost in mad tussle, my legs wrapped around the man’s right arm and torso as we grappled in attempt to throttle one another.

It was Oenomaus who, chuckling, called the match: “Exchange of ineffectual maneuvers!”

The Veteran and I turned our glowers away from our former doctore and aimed them at each other. His lips quirked.  I huffed.  Giggling, we untangled ourselves, assisted each other to regain feet, and clasped arms in solidarity.

I joked, “Will I live?”

He guffawed.  “Would you believe my estimation on it this time?”

Ha.  I had not fooled him on the eve of my first appearance in the arena.  “I might.”

“A good effort,” he appraised.

“Gratitude for the match.”

My only complaint arose from the coin Nemetes had no doubt swindled; I doubted anyone had anticipated this outcome.

“You call that a match!” an irritable voice roared.  “I call it a wild little dog and an old hound scratching each other’s ass fleas!”

I gaped at the figure that elbowed through the gawkers.

“Do my ears fucking deceive?” Duro very nearly squealed with excitement.

“Fuck the gods!” Agron bellowed gleefully, and I could only shake my head in bemusement at the wide and overly-accomplished grin of--

“Donar!” Spartacus welcomed, as Agron and Duro cut across the cleared ring to embrace the man in greeting.

By the gods.  It was him.  Donar was here… at the Veteran’s training ground… in the plain surrounding Metapontum.

I boggled.

Donar was here, which must mean--

“Who accompanies you?” Duro stated rather than asked, breaking from delivering enthusiastic thumps to the older man’s back.

Grinning, Donar nodded Duro toward some point beyond the crowd.  “Chadara stands at wagon with Aurelia--”  As Duro was already in motion, shouldering his way yonder, Donar directed his words to Spartacus.  “--Janus and babe.”

“Blessings,” the Thracian observed, clasping Donar’s arm warmly.

I hurried to claim a turn smacking a fist to the older German’s shoulder and then I moved to take advantage of the brief path left in Duro’s wake.  Fuck but my little brother must have wings upon his feet.  I could not recall him moving with such speed even in battle.

At least his eager blundering made him easy to spot.

A woman’s voice called out: “Duro!”

“Chadara!” he laughed, mauling her into an embrace I was also familiar with.  He ruffled her hair with joyful irreverence and I took opportunity to greet Aurelia by name.

Not only did she recall mine, but her slender arm across my shoulders came as a surprise.  I hid my shock as she leaned close and pressed her cheek to mine, greeting me as she would a brother.

“You look well,” I observed, pulling back as soon as etiquette permitted.  “Are you hale?”

“I am--” she began, but Duro shouldered his way between us to peer at the child nestled into the crook of her arm.

Chadara sidled up to me and, beaming, I put an arm around her in silent greeting.  She appeared happy.  Luminous, even.  And when she wrinkled her nose at my filthy, sweaty aroma, I knew all was right with her.  Laughing, I readily released her from the torment of my proximity.

“Who is this?” I heard Duro singsong, his dusty fingers wiggling above the clean swaddling sloth.

Aurelia angled the babe to face him.  “I call her Nadua.”

“Nadua!” he declared, thrilled.  “What a strong shield-maiden you are, Nadua.”

The babe yawned.

“Apologies,” Aurelia spoke through smiling lips.  “The journey was long and--”

Chadara jerked suddenly, jostling me as Janus ploughed into her legs, demanding an equal portion of attention.

Duro greeted him next, crouching down upon his haunches to bring their eyes level.  In a bout of shyness, the boy ducked behind Chadara’s skirt, but Duro was undeterred, smiling his charming, playful grin.

“You are radiant,” I informed Chadara.

“Hm.  And you are rancid!  Are there no baths?”

I accepted her teasing with grace.  “I must make proper use of one before Agron will allow me into our bed.”

She shoved my shoulder, heel of hand digging into a spot that was in the process of bruising.  I was too amazed and overcome to wince.  Chadara scolded, “You have gone wild.”

Agron would be very pleased to hear it.  But at the moment, I desired to know-- “What of Calius?  Camilla?”

Chadara’s smile faded.

From my other side, Aurelia spoke: “The message Calius sent told he and Camilla would meet us here.”

“You have not seen them,” Chadara assumed.

My throat was too tight to permit words.  I could only shake my head once and turn gaze down to where Duro had coaxed Janus into playing a game: he pressed the little boy’s palms flat together and then covered those tiny hands with his own larger ones.

“Catch me, Janus!  Move quickly and catch me!”  Janus lunged with his entire, tiny body, tugging his hands free and smacking the back of Duro’s with comical slowness, but Duro’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened in amazement.

“You caught me!  Try again.  Show me again.  Ready?”

Janus nodded, his golden curls bouncing and gods but it was as though Varro yet lived.  How did Aurelia endure such incessant reminder and heartache?  She stood a stronger woman than even Varro, her most ardent admirer, had estimated.

Janus “caught” Duro again and then Duro insisted it was his turn.  “Place your hands on mine.  Good!  Now I will catch you.  Stand you ready?”

The anticipation was too much for Janus, who squealed, and raced behind Aurelia.  As the little boy bumbled and spun behind us, Duro glanced up at Chadara and his eyes lost all sparkle, hardening like stones.  “You abandoned Calius and Camilla?”

“Our deception was discovered,” she hissed.

“They had coin,” Aurelia somberly added.  “Errands to market somehow saw their paths cross with soldiers bound for our domus.  Camilla’s note provided no further details.  Only a promise that she and Calius would attempt distraction to give us additional time to slip away.”

Chadara reached across the distance and gripped Aurelia’s free arm.  “They will come.”

Janus had completed his circuit and now bombarded Duro with a flying tackle.  “Oof!  I am slain by this mighty warrior!” he yelped and, despite dour news, a laugh squeezed its way out of my lungs.

“Aurelia?”

We turned at Naevia’s call and watched as disbelief surrendered ground to joy.  The two women embraced tightly regardless of the armor Naevia wore -- she was a far sight from the woman Aurelia had bid farewell at Vesuvius.

I bit back a smirk as Crixus drifted closer, uncertain of his reception but as willing as ever to shadow his woman’s steps.

Duro solved the Gaul’s dilemma: “Crixus, have you met my friend Janus?  Janus, this is Crixus.  He never smiles, but he is very pleased to see you.”

Janus slouched, pressing back into Duro’s bent knee in visible disbelief that this massive warrior was ever pleased with anything.

“I saw Crixus smile,” I insisted, unable to let opportunity pass.  “Once,” I added, squinting in thought.

“You dreamed it, Syrian,” the man insisted, squashing his lips together.

Naevia reared back from cooing over Nadua to needle the man: “Be kind to my Syrian brother, who taught me how to separate a man from his cock!”

Aurelia coughed out a very loud burst of laughter.

Crixus informed me very seriously, “For imparting that lesson in my stead, I stand in your debt, Nasir.”

“Yes, he does!” Naevia agreed, humming the words at a wide-eyed Nadua.  “And one day Uncle Nasir will teach you the same, will you not, Uncle Nasir?”

I looked from Crixus to Duro to Chadara to Naevia and, finally, to Aurelia.  “Um…”

“Will you not,” Aurelia softly teased, “Uncle Nasir?”

Chadara snickered at my discomfort.  “Is it not an uncle’s duty to teach nieces such things?”

Duro insisted, enjoying himself far too much as he tickled Janus, “A good skill to have!”

Naevia cheerfully agreed: “I’ve made use of it on more than one occasion.”

My gaze locked with hers and we shared smirks--

“That Roman fuck Marius and who else?” Crixus asked very, very quietly.

Cold fear washed through my being.

Naevia froze.

Duro angled Janus away from the man who now stood poised upon brink of eruption.

Naevia slowly straightened as Crixus repeated request: “Who and when and does the fuck yet draw breath?”

Oh.  Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.  I looked helplessly to Duro who heaved a sigh and did the bravest -- and most foolish -- thing I had ever witnessed.  He volunteered truth: “Sedullus.  In Anxia.”  

Crixus turned on his heel without a word and marched toward the gathering of Germans, Agron yet among them.

Naevia trotted after him.

Duro said to Janus, “Apologies, my friend, but I must go.  We will play again soon, yes?”

Janus nodded.

My German brother ruffled his hair as he stood.  “It is good to see you again,” he spoke fervently to Aurelia.  She nodded, hitching her daughter closer.

Duro cast gaze from the little girl’s face, patted Chadara’s arm in friendly manner, and then faced me.

“Yes, yes,” I relented irritably.  “I’ll see to their comfort and meet you at the arena.”  I shooed him away with an abrupt nod.  “Stand with your brother.”

I watched Duro sprint away, my jaw clenched with frustration.

“Sedullus?” Chadara prompted and I realized that neither she nor Aurelia knew anything regarding the matter of the moment.

“I will explain.  Let us see you settled.”

“No,” Aurelia insisted.  “You spoke of an arena…”

“A stone theater built in antiquity.  We settle quarrels there.  With blunted weapons.”

Chadara startled as raised voices punched through the excited chatter of Germans converging upon Donar, eager to meet a countryman that had once fought upon the sands in Capua.

The words of Naevia’s protest were lost in the clamor, but I easily discerned Crixus’ bellow and Agron’s roar quickly followed by Duro’s blunt opinion.  Whatever sense Spartacus urged them to see and share was drowned in a tumultuous tide of emotion.

Chadara gathered Janus close.  “Blunted weapons, you said?”

I nodded.

She did not take comfort in assurance.  “Naevia’s Gaul will not be satisfied at mere splinters, scrapes, and bruises,” she predicted.  “He will have blood.”

Yes, he would.

“See us to the arena,” Aurelia ordered and I balked, thinking of Janus and Nadua.

“I cannot guarantee the safety of your children in so large a crowd.”

“Nasir,” Chadara argued, “do you forget Donar?  He stands with us.”

“And not with the men he calls brothers or the kinsman who hail from his homeland?”

Chadara lifted her chin.  “Donar is pledged to me.  He will stand with us and keep us safe.”

So fucking be it.  I could not bodily carry these two immovable women.  “This way.”

Donar caught up to our group just as the arena came into view and I pointed Chadara and Aurelia to a seat distant from traffic and far from range of tumbling weapons.

“Agron asks for you, little man,” Donar informed and I kicked his shin in retaliation for the nickname.  He laughed.  I smiled.  The moment of humor was a brief but very welcome respite from immediate concerns.

And concerning those matters, I sought my lover.

He was in heated argument with Sedullus, who sneered at him.  The blatant show of disrespect was enough to tempt me to finish the task Naevia’s blade had begun so many weeks ago.

Duro stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother, commanding Nemetes to keep fucking forked tongue behind teeth.  Presumably, this would allow Sedullus to make up his own mind with regards to how he would answer the Undefeated Gaul’s challenge.

Assuming the massive German recalled how to use his own mind.  Nemetes had surely been shouldering that burden for the past months.

Though Agron’s impassioned German flowed too quickly for me to follow, his gestures were self-explanatory: he pointed toward the arena with one hand and then waved aimlessly in opposite direction with the other.  Sedullus could either confront the charges or fuck off before Crixus hunted him down and slit his throat.

Nemetes hissed.

Duro stepped into the man’s space, butting heads, and shouted in his face.

His words caused Sedullus to shove him away with a growl.  Agron leaped between them and I needed no invitation to come to aid.  I zipped between my lover’s chest and Sedullus’ bulk, grabbing the latter’s meaty arm and -- pivoting my entire form -- twisted it up behind the oaf’s back.

Sedullus swerved to knock me aside with his other arm, but Agron braced fast against his shoulder, holding him in place.

“Choose,” I heard Agron growl in German.

“I offer no apologies,” Sedullus snarled.  His next words were too garbled with fury to be sensible to my novice ears.

“Fucking idiot,” my lover spat.

“The point,” Nemetes bleated, “is that no one was fucked at all!”

Duro responded in deceptively light tone: “If that is your position, explain it to Crixus absent our aid.”

Sedullus could offer whatever explanation he liked; nothing would sway Crixus.  Not even Naevia’s clear and dangerous displeasure with her lover’s behavior.  I had once stood so angered by Agron and Duro when the Gaul had laid unkind hand upon me in their absence and my Germans had answered Crixus’ temerity in kind.

The arena filled with curious spectators.  Gauls shouted their allegiance to Crixus.  Germans hollered their support of Sedullus.  With the smallest spark, their generations-deep distrust of each other could ignite, resulting in the very situation we had feared that night when Naevia had rightfully defended herself against Sedullus’ unwelcome advances.

I detoured to confer with Chadara and Donar.  Janus fidgeted and Nadua fussed, but Aurelia seemed determined to watch the outcome.  Chadara’s sense of self preservation and Donar’s appreciation for the lengths to which men would go for the sake of pride now wove together and forged into a shield behind which Varro’s family sat protected.

The Syrian warriors I had trained and taught the common tongue to stood along the front row of seats.  I took my place among them.  Though I had been a witness and even acted as healer to Sedullus, my interference now would not be welcome.

Neither would Naevia’s.  More than once, Mira -- who had placed herself at Naevia’s flank -- offered voice of reason and held her fast against charging out upon the hard-packed dirt where Spartacus stood with Agron and Duro as Crixus glared hard, jaw clenched, at a sarcastically grinning and over-confident Sedullus.  I did not envy Mira her precarious position.  Had she not assumed the task, I would not have offered my services.  Naevia did in fact know how to part a man from his cock.  I would keep mine at a distance until her temper cooled.

And with every passing moment, that appeared increasingly unlikely.

This would not end well, though it began as I’d assumed it would:

Spartacus lifted his arms in the air to call for silence.  He spoke: “Sedullus stands accused of attempting assault upon Crixus’ woman.  Duro stands as witness.  Let it be known that the woman, Naevia, makes no accusation today -- by her reckoning, the matter is resolved.  For Crixus it is not.  Sedullus,” Spartacus said, gesturing to the man, “do you offer sincere apology for Crixus’ consideration?”

Sedullus jeered in heavily-accented common tongue, “Apology for false words?”

Neither Agron nor Duro moved a muscle.

Spartacus asked, “Do you call Duro a liar?”

“Fucking false words!” the man insisted and, pointing a finger at my German brother, shouted, “After Gaul dies, you next.”

Duro lifted his chin.  Agron tightened grip upon sword.

Spartacus nodded.  “So be it.  First position!” he called out as he, Agron, and Duro stepped back, taking posts midway between the gathering of Gauls and crowd of Germans.  “Begin!”

Begin.  A wild opening volley against methodical assault.   _ ** **Crash!****_  and _****clang!****_  and roaring fury.

Middle.  The _****whoosh!****_  of blade slicing only air.  Sedullus’ guard wide open.  Crixus’ swift stab.  First blood drawn.  No respite given as the former champion pursued.  Relentlessly.  Mercilessly slicing away at the gossamer veil of the German’s arrogance.

And end.  Sedullus, an ineffectual, useless, bumbling, overlarge child with sword in grasp, stood impressive only in his ever-mounting fury as Crixus made a fool of the man for stubbornly keeping feet despite mortal wounds.  The German’s pride and the Gaul’s formless rage.  Battle prolonged until Sedullus’ blood-slicked, trembling fingers could no longer grip pommel or sliced-and-stabbed arm could not lift shield.  Blade across hamstring -- spurts of blood spraying hard earth and Sedullus crashed to his knee.  One knee.  The other foot yet upon the ground.

Leveling bloodied sword point at Sedullus’ throat, Crixus said, “Speak apology and I ease your passing.”

Only the gods themselves held the power to spare the German’s life now.

Sedullus laughed and spat upon the Gaul’s foot.

Astoundingly, Crixus lowered sword and turned away.  “Then I have no further business with this witless fuck.”

A witless fuck, perhaps, but one who could yet take advantage of opportunity.

Sedullus attacked, lunging for the Gaul’s back and every man among the Brotherhood tensed with immediate and immolating rage.  Sedullus’ pride ran shallow indeed if he considered this an honorable fight!

The Gauls roared warning and Crixus turned--too fucking slow and I was too fucking far and Sedullus was yet capable of crushing the air from the Gaul’s lungs or bashing brains from skull or--

_****Thunk!** ** _

Sedullus blinked, stumbled, and fell against Crixus’ shield, tumbling limp and lifeless.  A knife buried in his forehead and Naevia’s arm slowly lowering from throw.

Crixus looked from the fallen man to his lover.  She glared back at him, turned on her heel, and took her leave.

The silence deafened.

And then roars.  The Gauls celebrated.  The Germans called for blood.

Crixus gave no shit for any of the commotion; he jogged after Naevia.  I wished them luck in mending the rift between them.  I would have my hands full here.

I urged Adal up and toward Donar -- “See them to the domus I share with Agron!” -- and then I dived into the sea of jostling bodies.  Former house slaves panicking in attempt to escape.  Germans rushing toward Gauls; Gauls surging toward Germans.  I elbowed, squirmed, and squeezed my way to where I had last seen Agron and Duro, blindly shoving hotheaded idiots back and back and back!

For uncounted terrifying and terrible moments, we teetered upon the cusp of riot.

And then a woman’s scream cut with searing sting through the melee:

“Romans!”


	5. Stand Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it turns out that Romans can be useful... well, the threat of them, anyway. Not gonna lie: I'm a little thrilled by the responses to the previous chapter's cliffhanger. I'm feeling especially -- and evilly -- accomplished. (^_~)
> 
> EDIT: Spartacus' speech was reworked on July 23, 2019.

“Romans!”

Alarm sounded.  Echoed.  Pulsed.  One word -- the _****only****_  word that could free from doomed endeavor so many men determined to kill one another.

“Romans!” the woman screamed again, and this time I recognized her voice: Mira.

Of course, Mira.  Yes, of _****course.****_

I joined my voice to hers.  “Romans!” I bellowed, scolded, reminded all of the one focus that united us.

Duro shouted: “Romans!”

And then Spartacus took up the call.  “Romans!”

Romans: our purpose for turning back on domus, setting foot to dirt track, and clutching pommel in hand.

Romans: the enemy that would march upon us, over us, squashing air from lungs and spirit from heart.

Romans.

In the rippling wake of confusion and uncertainty, eyes blinked.  Forms paused.  Weapons lowered and heads turned.  Silence.  A brief moment of quiet as, row by row, all focused upon the Thracian straining from center stage.  Gazes trained upon the man reaching out to the heart of each man and woman.

And each heart stopped to listen.

Spartacus would have this one chance to salvage his army before it tore itself apart.

He implored, “Brothers and sisters-in-arms, take pause!  These blades are meant for neither rivals nor neighbors!”

The Thracian spoke: “My blade thirsts for the blood of Romans.  What of yours?”  He gestured to a Gaul.  “Or yours?”  A German.  “Yours?”  A wide-flung gesture encompassing all within earshot.

“Brothers and sisters!  Let these blades deliver justice.  Vengeance.  By your hands, the will of free men and women shall pour as poison into the veins of Rome!  Spreading fear and weakness!”

My eyes caught subtle movement -- shoulders squaring and chin lifting -- as hot tempers cooled into hardened resolve.

Spartacus’ voice, amplified from theater’s time-buried stage, poured skyward, spilling as a downpour upon thousands: “The defeat of Rome swiftly approaches for you and I stand shoulder to shoulder in battle!  As Rome divides and conquers, we counter with unity and strength multiplied beyond reckoning.  We bring war to Roman thresholds!”

A wash of approving noise trickled past me.

“Brothers and sisters!  I would face Rome.  I would loosen my rage upon their lines and witness Roman knees quake in terror.  I would take _****blood****  _in payment of debt owed.”  He scanned the rabble surrounding him, poised upon ancient stone seats with weapon in hand and blood upon thoughts.  Poised to slash and rend and kill.  Spartacus roared, “Do you stand with me?”

Cheers, shouts, eager pledges flying up to the night sky, rocking the Roman gods from their lofty thrones and I was struck by epiphany: the very people Spartacus inspired to his cause could so easily turn against him, crush him.

Yet, even should they stay true, they formed a net, a cage, a trap, tethers that our leader could not hope to escape.  How could the weight of so many lives -- so much hope and rage -- not drag this single man to his death?

It would.  It must.

Gods save him.

Spartacus lifted arms in ignorance of that horrible, inevitable fate.  “Do you fight at my side?”

Gleeful bellows.

“Brothers and sisters, would you burn Rome to ashes!”

Fists punched into the air on a tide of battle cries.

“The fall of Rome!  Let us see it done!”

Noise and chaos.  Someone nearby stomped upon the stone beneath feet.

Once.

Twice.

More feet joined in.

_****Thump!  Thump!  Thump!** ** _

Again, again, again!

The entire plain shuddered with relentless rhythm -- an unstoppable pulse -- and Atlas himself strained to hold the world steady upon his mighty shoulders.  With one word, one shared source of hatred and fear, the mindless rush to answer petty rivalry dissipated, faded, and thirst for vengeance swelled, overtaking all until Spartacus’ army surged, stomped, and shouted as one.  Heartache and fury forged into a single, honed intent: the destruction of Rome.

Spartacus’ next words proved he would see it fucking done: “Rhaskos!  See your men to training!  Agron!  Nasir!  Rabanus!  Ortius!  Pollux!  Our victory awaits!”

Whether it did or not, I dutifully answered summons.  Returning to the Syrian men -- they now stood in numbers well beyond those liberated from Neapolis -- I gestured them toward training ground between German and Gallic camps.  I did not trust this truce to last beyond the next hurled insult and, though it would be dangerous to be caught between them, someone must provide buffer.

“Swords!” I ordered and shouted my men into neat rows for regimented exercise.

It was a long day full of much disappointment: Crixus had learned of attempted assault upon Naevia; Sedullus had been fucking executed; Spartacus was surely doomed by his own cause; and I was further displeased to find Castus acting as shadow, joining the ranks of men and women who would heed my instruction and keeping his gaze trained upon me until I had exhausted my charges and sent them to seek food and rest.

As the trainees shuffled past between and around us, Castus drew breath to speak.  Pivoting on heel, I endeavored to locate my Germans.  An easy enough task to see to completion: I strode past the field where Agron shouted direction to the men and women undertaking drills.  Given the swollen ranks of German fighters, they trained in shifts.  Smatterings of exhausted recruits slumped upon makeshift seats or leaned against tent poles, gesticulating and grinning through idle conversation.

Those who recognized me offered nods in passing.  I returned each greeting, but did not linger.  Nor did I turn to see if Castus yet trailed in my wake.

Duro guarded Sedullus’ body.  It had been washed and wrapped in accordance with Germanii customs and was now resting upon wooden platform.  Heaps of cut timber had been piled nearby, awaiting assembly into a proper pyre.

“Nasir!” Duro called happily.  “Castus!  Have you come to lend hands?”

“For what other purpose would I be here?” I testily retorted, irritated with Castus, frustrated with Duro, and despairing for the costs this day demanded.

“Yes,” Castus answered, coming to a stop beside me.  His arm brushed mine.

I stepped away and asked Duro, “How would you have me aid you?”  Clearly, all must be done according to Duro’s terms and none other.

Duro glanced between Castus and myself but gave no comment except to explain the arrangement necessary for stacking kindling.

I poured my focus into menial task, grateful for distraction.

Duro seemed to sense my volatile ire and kept an arm’s length between us until we had arranged all of the available timber and Duro asked Castus to fetch two jars of pitch.  Following a long stare in my direction, which I stubbornly ignored, the Numidian complied with Duro’s order, feet visibly dragging.

“Castus has endeared himself to you,” Duro noted with much sarcasm, “but do I imagine you hold equal desire to strangle me, little brother?”

“When do I not hold such desire?”

He laughed and dared to smack my shoulder.  “Then, when duty permits, I will present myself for scolding.”

“Grinning all the while,” I remarked, baffled by his merriment.

“We stand as brothers,” he said in answer to my unvoiced query.  “I recall a time when frustration would send you from my presence.”

A gust of breath escaped my lips.  “We are brothers,” I agreed.  Though I held issue with his decision to inform Crixus, I did not actively seek to put distance between us.  Finally, after months of struggling to make sense of a brother’s duties, words matched actions: Duro and I were brothers.

The feel of a warm hand on my shoulder nearly made me tense.  It was Duro’s playful smirk that assured me the touch would be from welcome source.

It was.

“Agron,” I greeted, angling chin up to receive a brief, stale kiss.

“Does Castus’ body rest beneath all this?”  His chin jerked toward the pyre that required only pitch and placement of Sedullus upon it.

Gods but my lover did not care for that shifty, smiling Numidian.  And he held not the suspicions that Duro and I entertained regarding Castus’ loyalties.  “No.  Duro sends him on errand.”

Agron glanced at his brother before turning toward me fully and lowering voice.  “He steps upon your heels.”

“And make a nuisance of himself.”

“Such is evident, but I would have you make greater effort at dissuading him from seeking your company.”

I stiffened.  Hissed: “You think I encourage his attentions?”

Exhaling heavily, Agron cast gaze upon our surroundings, either to confirm lack of eavesdroppers or to seek his next words.  For his sake, I hoped he chose them with care.

He bit out, “You do not make sincere attempt at discouraging him.”

I stepped away and shrugged Agron’s hands from my shoulders.

Duro opened his mouth to speak--

Just as Castus returned with two clay jars of pitch.  Rather than set them down, he pressed one against my chest and I accepted it absent thought... belatedly realizing this gave Castus excuse to slide his arm over my belly.

“Gratitude, Castus,” Duro spoke, tone over-bright.  “Come, set them aside until ceremony--”

Agron tore the jag from my grasp and shouldered past me to loom over Castus, growling words too low for me to catch.

Castus’ cheerful reply, however, was perfectly audible: “I merely extend helping hands.”

He extended hands, yes, and helped himself to whatever he liked.  Absent any thought toward my consent.

I scrubbed a hand over my face as Agron snarled soft, unintelligible words.  Duro converged on the pair and took his brother’s side, watching Castus expectantly.

Well, let the three of them fucking sort themselves out.  I turned away and nearly fell to my knees in relief at the sight of Saxa hauling Gannicus toward funeral site.

“Ready cock!” she loudly ordered her Celt.  “We fuck tonight!”

It appeared she had changed her stance on learning common tongue.

Gannicus laughed, but he sounded more resigned than amused.

“An eventful day,” I remarked, extending an arm in welcome.

“Ha ha-ha!  Indeed it was, brother.”  Glancing toward the corpse, the Celt mused, “He lived longer than I would have wagered.”

“Even taking Nemetes’ influence into account?”

“Ah, so that’s who steered the bull’s horns.”

“So it would seem.”

Gannicus eyed me.  “I heard Naevia cut him where a man feels wounds most keenly.”

“Duro witnessed it.”

The Celt quirked a brow.  “And together they stitched cock and balls back in place?”

I sighed.  “Such was my privilege.”

“You made him pay for it?”

“With every jab of needle.”

“Ha!  Ha-ha-ha!  My Syrian brother, you stand as the most terrifying man I know.”

“Compliments will not save you from my wrath.”

“Then I endeavor to never earn it.”  He nodded past my shoulder.  “Your Agron glares at me.”

I bared teeth in agitation.  “It is not you who has drawn his displeasure.”

The Celt’s grin hitched up on one side.  “I thought he possessed enough sense not to cross you!”

Grateful for his show of support, I bumped the man’s arm and waved to Oenomaus and Spartacus as they approached, leading many men from the Brotherhood.  I exchanged greetings with Lydon, Pollux, Ortius, Leviticus, and Litaviccus.  Rabanus and the Veteran expressed lighthearted concern for my bedraggled state.

“Do you make offer to prepare me a warm bath?” I retorted and, somehow, my snide drawl set them both at ease.  It did nothing to resolve my own inner conflict.  How could I pay respect to a man who had intended harm to my friend Naevia?

The answer was simple: I could not.  I would merely bid him farewell.  Many seemed to be of a similar mind.  Though Sedullus had not borne the brand, he had stood with us, trained alongside us, fought beside us.  I did not forget his faults, but I made time to remember the qualities that had aided our cause.

When the mourners gathered close, Agron shouted a short speech, his words clear yet unfamiliar to me.  Saxa tilted her chin up, spine straightening and shoulders squaring; perhaps I did not know their meaning due to formality.  As Agron prepared a torch, Duro began to sing and every German joined in.

And then the pyre was lit and Sedullus’ ashes rose into the dusky sky.  No part of him would touch tainted Roman soil again.  Whether he deserved the honor or not.

The song finished on a rousing cheer and, as wine skins tilted toward mouths and Germans closed ranks, I accompanied Spartacus and Oenomaus to Metapontum’s gate.  I lifted a hand to Mira, who stood armed with bow and arrow above the passageway into city.

Spartacus paused long enough to grip my arm.  “Gratitude, Nasir.”

He spoke of today, of my assistance in turning attention away from immediate bloodshed and toward deserving -- yet absent -- enemy.  I shook my head.  “I but repay your investment of faith in me.”

“One of my wiser decisions,” he conceded on a soft laugh.

Nodding up toward Mira’s post, I returned jest, “See to your other one.”  Truly, I had no notion of where Spartacus would be absent his woman’s intelligence, persistence, loyalty, and skill.

Oenomaus walked with me to the domus where Donar stood guard.

“How many corpses do they put to pyre tonight?” he asked after exchanging greetings with Oenomaus.

“Only one.  That of fallen combatant Sedullus.”

Donar’s face scrunched with confusion.  “How did they not fucking riot?”

Chadara appeared from the bedroom to hear this news.  Aurelia drifted in her wake to greet Oenomaus demurely.  I could only imagine how formidable the man had appeared on the infrequent occasions she had visited Varro in Batiatus’ ludus.  And now he stood in the home I had loaned her.

“Spartacus delivered rousing speech and then all were set to training,” Oenomaus succinctly informed.

Donar smirked.  “Worked the stubborn fucks to exhaustion, eh?”

“Men and women from east of the Rhine now indulge with wine in eastern camp,” I told.  “Should you wish to join celebration.”

Donar looked to Chadara, who sought permission from Aurelia.

“I would remain,” I offered, and Aurelia nodded her thanks.

“Go if it pleases you,” she murmured, lips curving in anticipation of their preference.

Grinning, Donar held out his hand and Chadara giggled as she took it.  With a brief peck upon my unshaven cheek, she tugged the man out of doors.  Oenomaus moved to follow.  He volunteered: “I stand guard with Spartacus at city gate.”

With so many wine-addled heads, his aid would be welcome though hopefully unnecessary.  Wine-drowned judgment had incited the strife which had led to the events of this day.  I willed that its repercussions halt advance with nightfall.

Still, I latched the door locked behind him as additional precaution.

Aurelia slid onto a bench at kitchen table.  “Your brothers do not take rest here tonight?”

In truth, I did not know.  “Agron and Duro stand with their kin.”

“And you with me.  Are we kin?”

I slumped into the seat across from hers.  “I called Varro friend and brother.  I think it would please him to hear me call you sister.”

Her smile flashed brief and bright before her head bowed.  “He spoke of you often.”  With a soft, helpless laugh, she admitted, “Had I borne a son, he would have been named for you.”

“Me?  And not Spartacus?”  I paused and admitted, “Though I cannot image a more dangerous moniker.”

“Varro told he does not fight under his true name.”

The admission startled me.  My exhausted mind jolted and I considered the name of Aurelia’s daughter: “Nadua.  She is called after…?”

“You.”  Drawing a shaky breath, she added, “And another.  Perhaps recklessly chosen.”

Shocked breathless, I leaned back, my hands dragging over table top to curl around its edge.

Aurelia explained: “You came to my husband’s aid in his moment of need.  Just as Duro came to mine.”

“At foot of Vesuvius?” I sought to clarify, searching my memory for the interaction she spoke of.

“We did not--”  She took pause and drew breath and began again: “Though we exchanged few words, his counsel gave me courage.”

I recalled sand beneath feet and a shared ladle of water, my looming test to gain acceptance into the Brotherhood and Duro’s urging: _****“You must hope; if a man takes up sword absent hope, he is already defeated.”****  _ With a wide smile and stinging eyes, I told her, “I too count myself a fortunate recipient.”

The first few hours of night passed steadily.  Aurelia and I traded softly-voiced memories of Varro until an insistent knock upon the door pulled me from bench to answer: “Who calls?”

“Remove hand from knife, little man.  Allow me and Chadara to return to charge.”

Grinning, I swung the door open and permitted my friends admittance.  “No riots?” I jested.

“Ha!” Donar barked.  “All are too drunk to find blade let alone work out how to unsheathe it.”

His gaze followed a rosy-cheeked Chadara as she sashayed through the kitchen to look in on the children who I assumed slept in the bed I shared with Agron.  I was relieved to have recently washed the linens.

Donar flicked my shoulder and swayed closer on his feet, breath fermented.  “What of that smiling shit stain?  That Duro tolerates?”

I felt my lip curl and swallowed back my disdain.  “A recent recruit.  I sent him to the Veteran.”

“He asked after you -- the shit stain, not the Veteran,” Donar clarified.  “Much to the very fucking displeasure of your man.”

“Agron does not trust him not to cause mischief.”

“Mischief?  The fuck has the look of a Cilician.”

My gaze met Donar’s in telling silence.  Licking lips, I spoke, “As do many who join our cause.  You are drunk.  Piss in the back yard and seek your bed, useless German.”

He replied with a crude gesture.

“Donar!” Chadara scolded from bedroom doorway.  Well, she made _****attempt****_  to scold through her tipsy giggles.  “Have we not broken words on this matter?”  She nodded toward a sleepy Janus who was fortunately rubbing his eyes rather than imitating Donar.

“Janus, would you piss?”  At the child’s nod, Donar reached out an arm to usher the boy toward kitchen door.  “Let us see how far you manage this time!”

Aurelia sighed with equal measures of fondness and exasperation.

I confided, “I would advise further words when he is sober enough to appreciate your resolve.  Children twice Janus’ age now spout crude insults as readily as any German warrior.”

“A task I add to the others I must see to on the morrow.”  Standing, she surveyed the small house.  “Including procurement of quarters for five.”

“This one provides snug fit?” I felt compelled to offer.

She shook her head.  “Gratitude, but no.  Chadara will find something a little larger.”

I promised Chadara I would make needful introductions the following morning and, upon Janus and Donar’s return, bid them good night.

Donar locked the door behind me.

As I jogged through night streets, my thoughts turned toward Duro.  He was a man possessed of a free heart who displayed more than his fair share of rashness… absent apology or shame, yet for all his foolishness, he offered unequivocal wisdom.  His words -- _****“Fight for him.”****  _\-- rang in my ears and, by the gods, yes, I would.

I had been a fool to allow any irritant, most especially one originating from a man such as Castus, to drive me from my lover’s side.  I may not appear so in form, but I was as “German” as any of the men who made camp east of Metapontum.  Agron had sworn it so: I had proved myself just as fierce and wild as those who hailed from homelands east of the Rhine.

Intent focused upon closing distance between myself and eastern camp, I nearly disregarded distant scuff of cloth against stone.  Nearly.  Hand upon knife, I glanced back…

And faced naught but shadows.

Shadows that watched me in return.  I was suddenly certain of it.  My heart raced not from elation or exercise but from the persistent suspicion that I was being hunted.

Was this the same gaze I had felt days previous or another?

Though I was tempted to lay a trap and force confrontation, I hesitated.  Were it Castus or a man of his ilk, Duro and Agron would never forgive me for taking overt risk absent their aid.  As dissatisfying as it was, I could only make the final turn onto Metapontum’s main thoroughfare where I noted several passersby despite the late hour.

With every step, the sensation of being studied faded until I reached the gate, where it thinned to nothingness and fell from concern.

Lysandros stood watch now; Spartacus, Mira, and Oenomaus had no doubt retired once funeral celebration had reached its peak and no brawls of significance had occurred.  My friend passed me my sword, and I wished him a pleasant night.  As he stood watch with Lydon, I doubted it would be overly conversational.  The Iberian was one of the most taciturn men with whom I had ever made acquaintance.

Lugo’s booming voice and Gannicus’ distinctive laugh guided me toward friendly faces, though I saw neither Agron nor Duro among them.

“Drink, Nasir!  Drink with Lugo and Gannicus!” the stocky German bellowed, shoving his wine skin into my grasp while Gannicus grinned up at me from where he lounged among the trampled, scraggly weeds.  The Celt’s clothes were rumpled and slightly off-center.  I would wager that Saxa’s demands had been met and satisfied.

“This Syrian stands as one-man-army!” the German roared happily into Gannicus’ bemused face.

I mimed a drink.  Though I was tempted and, fuck, it had been a long day, I would not invite drowsiness before I had located Agron and Duro.

Gannicus threw an arm wide, nearly smacking a loitering Totus in ass.  “Nasir and I could take Rome, eh, brother?  Squeeze its balls from north and south.”

“And clear the fucking streets?” I joked.

As Gannicus began relating our exploits in Neapolis on that rainy night, I caught sight of Agron.

Our gazes met.  I did not turn mine away.

His pace was slowed by more than one hand falling upon his arm, forcing him to pause a moment and play host, offer words and smiles and reasons for these warriors to accept him and his brother in the wake of Sedullus’ death.

It was a precarious time.  Nemetes was surely working hard to take advantage of lingering doubts… or perhaps sowing new ones.  Did he imply that Duro had manufactured the account of Sedullus’ guilt?  How many would see past the shifty shit’s whispers and glimpse the self-serving ambition beneath?  How many would care to look?

I regretted knowing so little of Germans and their ways.  All I could do was trust Agron and Duro to provide a quality alternative for those who were not completely swayed by Nemetes’ campaign of fear-mongering.

Agron’s approach took an age it seemed, but he beamed as he crossed the few remaining paces separating us.  His eyes held genuine warmth, yet he made no move to touch me.

Inching closer, I asked, “Where is Duro?”

Agron angled his body toward mine in invitation.  “Receiving adulation of fucking crowd,” he replied with a smirk.

“Fancies himself a bard?” I murmured, touching a palm to his hip.

Exhaling in what could only be relief, he nudged himself against my side and I spanned his waist with my arm.  His fingers endeavored to poke wayward tendrils of escaped hair back into braided weave.   “Neither you nor I could convince him otherwise.”

“Ah.  Delusions of grandeur.  Perhaps we should help him finish his wine?”

Agron curled a long arm across my back.  “A wise plan.”  He tucked his chin down and solemnly informed: “From a man of sound sense.”

Words of praise rather than apology, yet his regret was bared to me in the tilt of his brows and searching gaze.  I gave answer: “Let us ensure benefits from it, hm?”

Agron leaned down and kissed me -- sudden and searing -- in full view of all.  I tasted no wine upon his lips, only something powerfully heartfelt.  My shock melted into joy.  Gannicus whistled.  Lugo cheered.

Agron ignored them, busily nibbling at my lips.  I blindly and blithely licked my way into his mouth.  Ah, fuck.  I had passed the state of exhaustion hours ago but oh how I wanted to want.  Perhaps were he to provide a bit more incentive…

“An auspicious beginning to the night,” I murmured against the corner of his mouth.

He grinned and I nuzzled into nearest dimple.  “We must wait,” he chuckled, “until Duro sleeps soundly.”

I too remembered that night.  As well as the joys my wine-thinned inhibitions had at last permitted me to explore.

“Time passes too slowly,” I muttered and he barked a laugh.

“Then let us hurry him along,” Agron urged, taking a step back the way he’d come and waiting for me to follow.  I waved a distracted farewell to a bemoaning Lugo -- whatever his complaint was, I gave no shit for it -- and a chortling Gannicus and, installed at Agron’s side, I ran the gauntlet of merry and unsteady celebrants toward Duro’s fireside throne.

He spoke in German, of course, but if my knowledge of the language held true, then he was telling of ludus uprising and Spartacus’ leap to balcony.  Roman skulls skewered upon blade--

When Agron moved to interrupt, I pressed a hand to his chest, halting his intent.  “Hush.  I would hear this.”

Agron’s chest bounced with laughter and he wrapped both arms around me, snuggling my form into his embrace.  As it offered warmth away from distant fire, I made no complaint.  The foreign words washed over my ears and my lips twitched at their capture of Numerius.  My interruption.  The guard Agron had beheaded with one screaming swing of sword.

“Hm.  I thought that was you,” I informed his chest.

He pressed a kiss to my crown.

“And here he stands!” Duro declared, no doubt gesturing in our direction.  “Nasir, come show us your scar.”

“Fuck ass on pike.”

The crowd laughed.

“Nasir!” Duro singsonged and, fuck if it didn’t echo the memory of my brother’s call.  Shivering, I stepped away from Agron.

Duro finagled, “I’ll even lend aid in removing coat!”

I bared my teeth.  “Make fucking effort to undress me and you shall find yourself absent cock!”

Duro did not deny I stood capable.  He reminded his audience, “Naevia’s instructor.”

Yes.  Naevia’s instructor.  Her friend.  Her confidante.  Her betrayer.

Fuck.  Fucking fuck, if Duro was so set on the reveal of old wounds for his grand finale, then so be it.  The sooner this idiocy concluded, the sooner I could break words upon his thick skull.

I stomped over to the fire and abruptly tore the coat up and over my head.  “Is this the scar you wish to see?” I snarled.  “The one that I took for you?  The one that you held me down for as Agron branded me with sword and fire?”

Silence.

And then Agron spoke: “Medicus could not have forced that blade from even my cold dead fingers.”

My chin snapped up and I gulped at his expression.  Fuck.  He would have defended me and Duro had enemies swarmed ludus infirmary.  He would have died for us.  Suddenly ashamed of my behavior, I said, “It did not hurt very much at all -- at your hands.”

“Ha!” Vertiscus shouted.  “I wager that’s not the first time the little man has said those words to you, Agron!”

My lover swatted the drunken fool upon back of his head.  The blow was visibly harsher than the ones he gave Duro.  The man merely guffawed.  At the sound of shared humor -- fireside chuckles and chortles -- I smirked at Agron.  The stupid fucks held no notion at all of what transpired between us.  Teasing words danced on the tip of my tongue.  Witty rejoinders.  Bald truth.  I bit my lip and shrugged my coat on.

Turning to Duro, I arched a brow in expectation.  “Have you concluded tale, or will you detail your haircut next?”

Duro ran a dirty hand through his long, limp tufts of hair.  Still too short to twist into anything other than disturbing spikes.  “Ugh.  You fucking spoil sport,” Duro complained, pushing himself to his feet, “growing grumpy and irksome when overtired.”

“Grumpy, irksome, and armed,” I amended.

Duro threw an arm around my shoulders and attempted to wrestle my face into his smelly armpit.  I tickled him in retaliation until Agron wedged his torso between us.

“Cease, brother,” he commanded with mock severity.  “I would kiss that face later.”

More laughter.  With smiles, waves, and shouted farewells, we extracted ourselves from the campfire gathering and trudged off into shadowed pathway between tents.

“Where do we go?” I asked, exhaustion returning on a cresting wave.

“Temple stables,” Agron answered, sounding equally weary.

A fair distance, but it would do no good to complain.  I desired rest and the peace of mind that came with knowing both Agron and Duro were safe more than I desired city walls.  Besides, someone lurked those streets, eyes fixed upon my movements.  At this time of night, I doubted it would be wise to traverse: all three of us were utterly spent.

It took visible effort for Agron to yank open stable doors.

Salaminias lurched upright from his pallet, startling Duro and preventing him from treading upon the young Syrian where he slept across threshold.  Libo was already snoring upon a cot across from the occupied stalls.  The best cavalry horses were housed here, protected from theft or slaughter.

Offering apologies, I waved Salaminias back to his bed.  We collected a lamp, lit wick from the flame that softly danced in time with Libo’s breaths, and scaled the ladder, seeking a quiet space behind stacks of feed.  I collapsed in an ignoble heap.  Agron leaned against nearest wall and slid down, knees bent and head bowed forward.  Duro sprawled in far corner, legs stretching out and presenting as obstacles to unwary trespassers.

“Duro,” I began.  My bones ached, but I would break these words now in what was surely a rare moment of complete privacy.  Although, I would first set aside assumptions in effort to understand.  “By what logic did you deliver truth to Crixus’ ears?  Of Naevia’s encounter with Sedullus?”

Elbows braced upon thighs and hands dangling between his bruised knees, Agron also looked to his brother for answer.  “Was it not you who bleated concern for a return to forces divided, Gauls and Germans at fucking odds with one another?”

Duro rolled his left shoulder and winced, lifting right hand to knead sore muscle.  Craning his neck to the side, he muttered, “Our forces have always been divided.  Nemetes--”

“Stands alone now that Sedullus is put to grass,” Agron interrupted.

Duro argued.  “He stands among fools who are easily led and reckless for blood.”  Duro waved a dismissive hand.  “They can fuck off.  I would take Crixus over a thousand of their number.”

“Were we so fortunate,” I grumbled.

Duro’s chin dropped forward and his tone emerged harsh: “Nemetes has moved against Spartacus and our Brotherhood from the moment his feet left fucking slaver’s ship.  I have made every effort to turn him from his own ambition and fight for the good of all, yet he is blind and deaf!  Seeing value only in his own reflection in glass!  How am I at fault for that?”  

“You are not,” I admitted.

He lifted hands in show of victory.  However, the matter was far from resolved.

“Nemetes is spindly shit from a snake’s ass,” I agreed, “but we betray Naevia.”

Duro paused.  “What?”

Agron looked up sharply.

“She broke words, Duro!  The night she nearly gained a man’s cock as trophy.  We agreed Crixus must not know -- no one beyond the six of us must know!”  The six of us: Totus, Lugo, Agron, Duro, Naevia, and myself.

Duro snorted.  “Well, she broke no such fucking words with me!”

“You would have been sober enough to hold them in memory?”

“Do not,” he bit out, “compare me to that swine cock Sedullus.”

I clenched fist before I could slap floorboard and cause even greater disturbance. “Remove head from ass and heed me!”

“Would that your words made fucking sense and I might!”

I enunciated carefully: “We have lost Naevia’s trust!”

“We have gained it!  Goatfuck!  Come dawn, she and Crixus will forget their quarrel with each other and remember that we spoke no lies!”

I dropped my head into my palms.  Sighed.  “You reason with the heart of a free man.”

“And?”

“Naevia and Crixus lived as slaves for as many years as I.”  Cupping hands over my mouth, I considered Duro’s baffled expression.  “Where you find honor in honesty, we find worth in silence.”

Agron quietly interjected: “Do not speak as though you have not abandoned those ways.”

“Abandoned, yes.  Forgotten, no.”

Slumping back against wall, Duro shrugged helplessly.  “Tomorrow, we break words with them both, then.”

“Should either of them pause long enough to listen,” I muttered.

Duro kicked my folded knee.  “I heed you, brother.  We will--”

Agron cleared his throat.

At his older brother’s pointed glare, Duro rocked skull impatiently between the wooden boards forming his chosen corner.  “Yes, yes, _**I**_ will fucking explain.  As I explained to you--”  He peered at me.  “--why I challenged Crixus in the ludus.  But do not mutter dark tidings of ill fortune that has not yet come to pass.  I am too fucking tired.”

A puff of mirth escaped me, lifting my chin briefly in a semblance of a nod.

Agron reached over and flicked Duro’s ear with his finger.  “Stupid cock.”

“Fucking idiot.  Cease spewing shit and permit me rest.”

Agron rolled his eyes and then, slowly, extended his hand to me.  I took it and we tangled together on loft floor.  Duro pinched the wick dark and moments later was snoring at his brother’s back.  I lay with my head tucked beneath Agron’s chin.  My lover sighed.  I petted the scar upon his chest, so near his heart.

Sleep would come.  I needed only be patient in waiting for it.


	6. Whatever Is Required

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duro POV

Spring.

Or the pathetic, limp-cock Roman version of it.  Crisp, ice-kissed breezes and shyly budding tree limbs?  Not on this featureless and flat, sea-salted plain.  Bird song and fresh bear tracks smeared in damp earth?  No, none of that, either.  Were it not for the gradually shrinking campfires at dusk, no one would even notice that an entire season had passed.

We had wintered an army in Rome.  Unbothered since Vesuvius.

Fuck the gods.  That fact alone was enough to balance my longing for the familiar seasonal transitions of home.

Over the duration of a single season, we had become an army.

My grin was made wide with confidence, even as my heart twinged with foreboding.  For the latter, I would happily blame Nasir and his overly-cautious ways, except that Spartacus’ policy of welcome had allowed men of dubious motives such as Castus to creep into our midst and had likewise failed to muzzle shit-stirring fucks such as Nemetes.

 _ ** **“A man has the right to speak his mind.”****  _ Spartacus and his goatfucking ideals.

“It would be a simple matter to kill the fuck,” Agron muttered, glaring across the crowd of assembled recruits to where the coin-loving shit was attempting to swindle a roving sutler.

I bumped my brother’s arm.  “And then who would assume his position?”

He grunted and turned to watch Nasir face off against a huge, strutting Nubian.  Pfft.  My Syrian brother would fell the oaf in ten moves.

He toppled the lummox in seven.

I smirked when Nasir ordered the man to report to Vitus for basic instruction in defense.

As the crowd of newly-arrived recruits jostled for possession of the Nubian’s relinquished training blade, Nasir stepped over and demanded a quick kiss from Agron.  With an exasperated roll of eyes, I shook my head in amusement.  After nearly half a year, one would think their lust tempered.  If only a bit.

Gannicus’ certainly appeared so.  Every time I looked over, there he was, expending effort in mock battles and assessing recruits at Sibyl’s side.  With scrunched brow, I counted the days since I’d seen him sloppy with drink or stumbling along with Saxa’s hand clutching his codpiece.  The number was alarmingly high.

Now that I considered it… I had often glimpsed Saxa accompanied in recent days by her new pet -- some Thracian called Belesa who was ever half-drunk and assessing the form of passersby with lustful gaze.

A woman I might have taken an interest in.  Before.

“Do you sup with us?” Nasir asked of me, passing his training blade to Leviticus.  The Gaul that Nasir had just sent rolling in the mud would be Fortis’ charge, though what the Numidian would be able to make of the man, I held no great expectation.

“Eh, no,” I mumbled as Agron angled himself to allow Nasir close.  He nudged a shoulder against my older brother’s chest in casual contact.  In affirmation.  In alliance.  In affection.

“Do you forget the day?” Agron teased my little Syrian brother, running his fingertips along the man’s opposite shoulder.

Nasir grinned.  “No, merely make attempt not to assume.”

With a flick of hand, I invited, “Assume as you will.”

“We walk with you,” Agron insisted when I turned upon heel to set foot for city gate.  I frowned at both the stubborn tilt of Agron’s chin and flat line of Nasir’s mouth.

“It is yet fucking daylight,” I reminded them.

“Soon to equal night in duration, yes,” Nasir agreed, “but I did not give warning of watchful gaze for purpose of entertainment.”

“Fucking suit yourselves, then.”

“Once you reach destination, we shall.”  Agron beamed.  Obnoxious goat cock.

“Eh, piss on yourself.”

Nasir snickered.  “If you would first provide demonstration…?”

“Oh, yes.  Certainly.  I’ll gladly piss on you.”

Agron flicked my ear.  “Any excuse to wag your cock about.”

My sour frown merged into a snort.  “The world should be so blessed.”

“Is Aurelia aware,” Nasir mused in that fucking superior whine of his, “that you ruined thirty-seven Syrian children with your foul ways?”

I jabbed a finger at him.  “I gave them fucking useful skill in breaking words.  Should you cast gaze upon them flinging their own shit at one another, seek Agron for explanation.”

My brother’s palm connected with the back of my head.  I lunged to stomp on his foot.  He elbowed me in ribs.  I kneed him in hamstring.

Nasir squeezed himself between us before the victor could be decided by a headlock.

We submitted our weapons at city gate and I made attempt to annoy my determined companions into departing my presence.  If anything, they appeared increasingly amused with every step taken toward my destination.

On the stoop of the humble abode, I gestured them away with a wide sweep of arm.  “I arrive.  Unmolested.  Now go fuck each other elsewhere.”

Agron’s grin was absolutely diabolical.  “And should no one be home to answer your call?”

Nasir nodded.  “We must not be remiss in our duties.”

Duties.  Goatfucking fuck.  I stood fucking guard duty with them every other night in response to Spartacus’ plea.  The gods only knew what sort of shenanigans these two would get up to were they left to their own devices… or assigned a chaperone any less vocally disapproving than I!

I sucked in a breath to make further retort, but when Agron’s brows merely twitched in anticipation, I chewed back the words.  I would not allow them to further distract and delay me.  Spinning upon heel, I raised fist to knock--

The door cracked open and Chadara peeked out.  “Duro!  I thought I heard your dulcet tones.”

“You stand well-versed as Donar is both dull and set in his ways,” I jested.

She snorted a giggle and a large hand splayed upon the door near her head, opening it further.  “Get in here, pup.  I would wet my tongue with wine and my cock with--!”

Chadara elbowed him hard enough to force the air from lungs.  Donar coughed.

Agron giggled and Nasir manfully bit back a laugh.  “Come, Donar.  We’ll see you to the hall.”

Donar gave token resistance: “I can find my own way.”

I arched a brow.  “And what will your hand find **_along_** the way?  A shadowed path behind flowing curtain, perhaps?”  I eyed Chadara’s skirt.

She rolled her eyes; I was fairly certain I’d been the one to teach her the proper way it’s done.

Donar knocked his bulk against my shoulder in passing.  “Janus asks for his pet,” the man informed with an explanatory jerk of his head.

“Then he will be sad to see you leave.”

Chadara shoved me over the threshold.  “Evening meal waits on your arrival.  Ungrateful man.”

I was completely grateful -- absolutely incredibly grateful -- to find myself on the inside of closed door and all smirking puke dribbles on the other.  

Though, by the scorched aroma in the air, Aurelia had come no closer to mastering Metapontum’s cookware.

“Doo-wo!”

Grinning, I crouched and braced myself for Janus’ flying tackle, flailing my arms and skinning my knuckles on the wall when I miscalculated in favor of dramatic flair.  “Janus, you monster!  You’ve grown even more since you last bested me in battle!”

“Two days ago.”

I looked up from mussing the giggling boy’s wild curls and had to clear my throat twice at the sight of Aurelia looking on from the archway.  “Was it just?” I managed, my voice sounding gravelly to my own ears.  “I would have wagered longer.”

By the gods, this woman’s smile could fell a man.  In fact, it likely already had.  Varro had been irredeemably smitten.  I no longer wondered at the cause.

“Is the time not shortened by dread of my abysmal cooking?”

I bit my lip, but ah fuck there was no stopping my smile.  Turning to Janus, I confided, “Abysmal, she says, when I’ve never had better!”

“Your lies are pretty, at least,” she replied as Janus squealed and squirmed against my tickling fingers.  “It’s more than can be said for your hair.  Won’t you let me cut it?”

“Eh, maybe in a day or two.”

“Hm.  The very same words you spoke last time.”

They were the same words I spoke each time she asked, which amounted to once every other day for the past two weeks.  Basically, every day since I’d stolen Nasir’s promise of assisting them with locating suitable lodgings and assigned myself the charge of seeing pantry, cellar, and linen shelves stocked.

“Then I ought to offer you new ones,” I decided, lifting Janus up and slinging him over one shoulder as I stood.  “Shall I tell you of the boorish recruits I faced today and bested with my might?”  I flexed an arm and waggled brows.  Janus nearly kicked me in the chin, but I was undeterred.

Aurelia exhaled through a smile.  “Your aroma speaks on your behalf.”

“Are you certain that’s me you smell?”  I sniffed at Janus, who screamed gleefully in my ear: “Doo-wo!”

Fuck but this little fellow was fierce.

“You unleash him,” Aurelia quietly assessed after I’d settled the boy onto his tiny, pedaling feet and he’d taken to zooming around us at the table while we slowly worked our way through the stew Aurelia had cooked to the consistency of gruel.  I had no notion what it had started out as, but I spooned the brown mush into my mouth in between passes made by giggling, blurred streak of boy.

Aurelia spoke truth: Janus was unleashed... and hurtling through each moment.

“Good!” I bellowed down at Janus when he dived onto the bench beside me.  I flicked his ear.  He rolled off and onto the floor to poke at my sandals.  “Though I am scandalized at Donar -- shirking his duty.”

“They play,” she told.  “But with aims in mind.  Donar builds his strength.  Chadara teaches him words and numbers.”

“And I would have him laugh himself silly.”  I met her gaze briefly.  “Would that the same efforts also bring his mother happiness.”

Her lips trembled -- on a burgeoning smile or in attempt to hold back a sob, I knew not which.  Hunching sideways, I blurted to Janus who was now patting a strange drumbeat on my knees, “Janus, I cleaned my bowl again!  Come see!”

He squiggled into my lap like a slimy eel and I promptly captured his attention with amazing feats: I made attempt to balance spoon on end and wailed each time it inevitably toppled; I then placed empty bowl at angle and clapped when it naturally wobbled and spun flat again.  Janus tried his hand at both, banging the wooden utensil and dish loudly upon the table.  The racket woke Nadua who screamed for attention.  Aurelia laughed helplessly.

Ah, what beautiful noise.  All of it.

I put out my hand for Aurelia to remain and fetched the infant from her bed in the next room, scooping her slowly into my arms and dancing her across the threshold.  Aurelia watched our entrance, chin in palm and eyes gleaming bright, as I sang a song about a hunter crossing paths with a bear.

Passing Nadua into her mother’s arms, Aurelia’s scent -- some sort of mint oil, burnt stew, and faint sweat -- twined its way into my bloodstream.  My pulse raced so fast I was certain she felt it buzzing through my skin as our arms brushed and Nadua waved her tiny fists and--

“Doo-wo!  Play play play!”

Janus tossed himself off of my abandoned bench and leaped up and down upon my feet.

Aurelia angled herself away, presumably to offer her breast to her daughter for nursing.  I grabbed the shawl draped upon wall hook and passed it over her shoulder, careful not to allow my gaze to stray where it was unwelcome.  The women of this land were far more modest than those east of the Rhine.

Her fingers caressed mine as she took the garment.  I was still shivering when I answered Janus’ summons.

We rough-housed and raced.  We danced and sang and played silly, pointless games.  When he nearly yanked the gold ring from my nostril, I decided it was time to send Janus on missions.  I made him fetch me another spoon, and then the broom, and then I assigned him the very important task of sweeping the utensil from one side of the kitchen floor to the other as I clapped and cheered.

I held Nadua while Aurelia washed the dishes -- my offer to tend to the chore waved aside.  In all fairness, I was more skilled at managing little monsters than cleaning stew pots.

When Aurelia insisted on rescuing the ill-fated spoon, I called Janus over to sit with me.  I pointed to his chest.  “What’s this here?  A spot of stew?”  The boy looked down and I flicked the tip of his runny nose.

“He’ll never fall asleep,” Aurelia scolded absent heat.

“Suppose you place a blanket over his head for a hood?  As one does with falcons?”

She laughed.  “I believe Donar made attempt.”

“Absent success, eh?  Well, we might bop him on the noggin.”  I twirled a lock of blond hair around my fingers until it stuck straight up.  “There!  That’s a good start.  We’ll make you into a warrior from lands east of the Rhine!”

“By the gods.”  Aurelia appeared equally amused and horrified.  “You turn my son into a hedgehog.”

“A creature of great prowess.  Second only to Germanic warriors.”

“A thing you would have me notice?”

“A fact fearsome Germans would have all notice!” I proudly bragged.  The boast wrung another smile out of Aurelia; I held no regret for it.

Holding out her hand to Janus, Aurelia bade, “Come.  It is bath time.”

He whined and pouted until I shadowed them to the bathroom.  Nadua and I waved farewell at the doorway.  Well, I waved.  Nadua erped upon her chin.  “Nadua, we must practice proper farewells,” I informed her very seriously.  She blinked her wide, brown eyes at me.

Once Janus was bathed and tucked into bed, I told him the story of the hunter and the bear.  When I reached the end, his eyes were still bright, so I sang him the song.  German words he surely could not make sense of.  Eventually, he settled down to sleep.

A hand on my shoulder -- Aurelia returning from tending to Nadua.  She leaned over and blew out the lamp.  We both rose and tiptoed from the room.

Gazing upon the shadowed threshold, I mused, “Janus is…”  I shook my head in wonder.  “At times I imagine I have been given opportunity to know Varro again, but… while I would gladly lay eyes upon my friend, that hope is a pale shadow compared to knowing Janus.  The boy he is now.  I…”  I did not have the words to express my gratitude and sheer fucking honor at the privilege.

A soft sniffle.

Silent tears crowded the corners of Aurelia’s eyes.  Seeped over her lashes and onto her cheeks.

“Ah, apologies!” I stuttered through sheer, mind-blanking panic.  I would rather face daunting task of wrangling two dozen half-starved goats than this woman’s agony.

Hunching down -- fuck she was even shorter than Nasir! -- I blathered: “I am a clod.  An oaf.  I intend compliments, but deliver grief.”  I thumbed the moisture from her skin as gently as my wind-chapped, callused hands allowed.

Her fingers curled around my wrists.  I made to pull back, but her grip remained.  Thus, I remained, caught up in her tears as a fly stuck in honey.

I burned to break words with Aurelia, to exchange jests and shy smiles.  I would offer her more than simple charm; I would hold up a glass so that she might view her own strength and beauty in its reflective surface.  But I tempered my efforts.  These visits merely coincided with the evenings Donar and Chadara claimed for themselves.

The front door swung open, bringing a puff of wind which stirred embarrassingly intense waves of both relief and disappointment.  Chadara stuck her head past the doorpost.  Aurelia released me.

Goatfuck.

“The day after tomorrow?” Aurelia murmured as Chadara tactfully retreated and noisily swatted at Donar to remain out of doors a moment.

“I will be here,” I vowed.  Playfully chucking her chin, I offered her a parting smile.

Chadara patted my shoulder.  Donar bid me goodnight with a nod.  Lugo greeted me in the street with open arms.  “My brother!  Let us find wine and women and celebrate!”

“What do we fucking celebrate?” I challenged readily, though I felt very little desire for wine and none at all for the company of unknown women.

“We take big caravan today!  Seven wagons!”

“A good day’s work.”  I pounded him on the back.  “Rewards well deserved, eh?”

Lugo grimaced.  “No rewards.”

“No?”  This was a surprise; it was customary for raiders to claim first choice -- a modest assortment of items for personal use -- from carts’ offerings.  The remainder was divvied up among the camp.

“Bah.”  Lugo swatted at empty air.  “Fucking Nemetes!  Hoards the lot.”

“For sale?” I assumed on a sneer.

Lugo shrugged, irritated but eagerly looking ahead to wine; drink and merriment would set the world aright.

No sooner had my feet crossed hall threshold than Agron passed his half-empty cup into my grasp as Nasir preceded him out into the street.  My brother pointed a finger in my face, and I huffed.

“I hold no intent to wander streets alone--”

He nodded.  Brusque and fucking conceited.  “Good.”

“--and hold hope of falling abed long after you two have finished ploughing each other into oblivion.”

Nasir smirked.  “Good.”  He tapped Agron’s hip and finally they fell from fucking sight.

With a deep breath -- I would fucking enjoy the fresh, night air before diving into this fucking hole of stale sweat and spilled drink -- I turned toward the boisterous crowd in the hall.  Answered hails with a wave.  Familiar faces for the most part.

Near far wall, Castus engaged Adal in animated conversation -- heh.  Those two could bounce wit back and forth for hours.

Lugo tilted an amphora against my bequeathed cup, filling it to brim before Totus and Harudes called him over.  Nursing the over-watered wine, I meandered through the hall around and around -- my movements bringing to mind Janus’ one-boy race circuiting kitchen table -- but I did not count Nemetes among those present.

Goatfuck.  He was likely in camp, making attempt to recoup the loss of his spearhead Sedullus.  Whether the mean-spirited, near-sighted fuck would have made a competent leader was beside the point; Sedullus had cut a fucking intimidating and formidable figure among the masses.  What warrior wouldn’t take pause and consider following such a man?  There stood no other German who could match him in form.  Well, none that I was aware of.

From Lugo’s report, this lack clearly had not deterred Nemetes from his ambitions.  Not if he was confiscating goods seized during raids.  He was selling them or storing them.  He would not get far weighted with coin.  Every clank and jingle would invite bandits to lighten his purse.  So if he did not intend solitary escape, then he would recruit followers.  A safer way to travel in these uncertain times.  And parting ways with Spartacus, who remained Rome’s primary target of interest, would be a wise course.  He could even now be griping and muttering, sowing seeds of doubt in fertile imaginations as he offered the promise of coin and comforts to anyone willing to join him in dissension.

Dissension that Spartacus would fucking allow as a man’s fucking right to withdraw allegiance at whim.

So fucking be it.

For every word Nemetes uttered, I would endeavor to speak two.  I would demonstrate my ongoing efforts -- an echo of Spartacus’ own tireless efforts -- for the benefit of all rather than a select few.  Yes, this was a battle I could fight.

A battle I would fucking win.

The following morning, as Agron and Nasir faced each other in mock combat at Oenomaus’ behest, I endeavored to remind my kin of the trust they had implicitly placed in me:

“Vertiscus!  Your ax surely fells trees with a single blow!”  

“Harudes!  Swallow your fucking battle cry and bleed it out through your hands!”

“Lugo!  You will yet topple Jupiter with that fucking hammer!”

“Saxa!  Those daggers make you twice as vicious, eh?”

“Totus!  Let us cross swords soon and give each other worthwhile challenge!”

While Nemetes whispered of fear, I shouted encouragement.  I smiled and jested and turned no question away unanswered.  What my kin required, I would give.  It was a lesson my father had tried many times to teach.  I had never truly learned it until now.

Perhaps my brother was not the only one that the gods had crafted a plan for.

“Duro, would you spare a moment?”

I blinked.  Turned.

Naevia stood stiffly off to the side, very nearly crouching beside a tent.  It pained me to see her so uncertain of welcome among my people.  Were we not all united through Spartacus’ friendship, our hatred focused upon Rome?

She said, “I would break words.”

“Yes!  Yes!  Of course!”  I relinquished my spot in the meal line and resolved to ignore grumbling belly.  “Apologies for not seeking you out myself in recent days.  Nasir advised…”  I trailed off, uncertain of whether it would be wise to admit Nasir had ordered me to allow Naevia and Crixus to settle dispute absent interference.

“Let her seek us on her own terms,” Nasir had recommended when Fortis had firmly turned Nasir, Agron, and myself away from the inner sanctum of Gallic camp the morning after Sedullus’ death.

Naevia hummed, a sound that was both wry and fond.  “Nasir usually knows best.”

“Is it not fucking irritating?” I agreed.

She barked a laugh up at the cloudy sky.  And then her chin snapped down and her gaze bore into mine as a blade pinning opponent in place for death blow.  “For what purpose did you speak of events that took place in Anxia?”

A very good fucking question.  After all the effort expended to prevent rumors and dissension, I had offered confession to Crixus’ query absent hesitation.

Though, I had not lied to Agron and Nasir that night: the consequences of making it known that a German had attacked a Gaul’s woman would have most likely split our burgeoning army in two.

It may yet.

Nonetheless, I had spoken up despite the risk.  I had spoken truth because Crixus had clearly been moments away from realizing that had Naevia in fact injured a man, then his survival might very well have been due to Nasir’s skill in treating wounds.

Nasir did not deserve the Gaul’s wrath.  Not after all my Syrian brother had done to see Naevia to safety, encourage her to take up weapon in defense, and enable her first acts of vengeance.  He had acted as Crixus would have done had the Gaul been present at the abandoned villa of Reginus.  I would not allow that bond to be severed.

Besides which, as a witness to the altercation, did it not stand my duty to speak out when called upon?

There were many reasons.  I held fast to the one I had given Nasir when he had asked in loft of temple stables.  I told Naevia:

“I hold no desire toward uttering false words to those I would fight alongside and may one day fall beside in battle.  I play no games with your secrets,” I vowed.  “East of the Rhine, an honest man is worthy of friendship.”

Naevia drew a deep breath, studying me.

After a very long moment, she gave reply: “I would agree.”  She offered her arm.

I accepted, my fingers curling over the polished, leather bracer she wore.  This was no Roman design. It was handmade.  Perhaps by Gallic hands.  Were she and Crixus yet at odds with one another?  Was life not too uncertain and too short for such trivialities?

I thought of Varro and I thought of Aurelia, but I did not offer unsolicited counsel.

What Naevia sought from me was honesty.  She posed query: “Would you have spoken of it had I not mentioned making use of Nasir’s lessons?”

“No,” I informed solemnly.

She suddenly countered: “I broke words with Nasir and Agron in Metapontum’s hall.  At last night’s evening celebration.”

I nearly asked if she had encountered them before or after they’d fucked, but it was moot; those two lusty goat shits were never not between fuckings.

Nodding, I rocked back on my heels, awaiting Naevia’s thoughts to be offered.

“Nasir gave mention of the time you challenged Crixus.”

Although the bruises, welts, scrapes, and stitches were long gone, my grin was wide enough to make the entire left half of my face throb with memory.  “You witnessed it?”

“Regrettably, no.  Though Lysandros gave a very detailed account of your sound defeat.  Five times, wasn’t it?”

I chuckled.  “Next time, I shall aim for ten.”

“One for each finger Crixus breaks upon your hands.”

My grimace hopefully spoke my opinion for me.  “He does not forgive that I held tongue for so long regarding Sedullus’ trespass against you?”

The Gaul would naturally prefer to hold quarrel with me rather than with Naevia, who certainly had not told of the encounter herself nor had Sedullus made vocal his complaints.  But as Sedullus had been made utterly stupid with wine that night, he’d probably possessed no recollection of the assailant.  Still, he likely could have sussed out what he’d done to deserve vicious and tellingly-located wound.  I doubted the man’s pride had permitted him to speak a word to anyone on it.

Crixus’ ignorance of the attack was proven by the simple fact that Sedullus had yet drawn breath each day thereafter.  Glowering, sneer-shaped breaths as he’d traveled by cart with the other injured and maimed.  A far more fitting and humiliating revenge than the release of death should anyone inquire toward my opinion.

Naevia answered: “Should Crixus bear you ill will, he holds no cause for it.  It was my fight.”

“That it was.”

“Yet when Crixus and Nasir nearly came to blows in the ludus, it was you,” she accused with narrowed eyes, “who sought to relieve friend and brother of well-earned honor.”

My entire body jolted.  “What do you--what fucking--Naevia!” I blurted.

When her brows tilted and pinched in expectant expression, I realized Nasir had not explained my motivations.  Well, as they were my own, it stood my charge to determine whether I would speak them.

I very nearly reached for her shoulder as I would when speaking with Nasir.  Instead, I fisted lifted hand, enacting the moment my Syrian brother had gripped Crixus’ right wrist, mirroring their brands.  The Brotherhood.

To Naevia, I said, “Nasir faced Crixus absent allies.  He faced a champion of the arena and fought -- with words rather than blades or fists, yes--”  I shrugged.  Did that not make Nasir’s victory against the Undefeated Gaul that much more outstanding?  “--but he kept his wits and fucking met issued challenge.  I could not have been prouder for him.  Or of him.”

My words genuinely surprised her.  And I wasn’t finished.  Not quite.

“I sought to return favor,” I confessed, “because Nasir is my brother, and I would make attempt to match his courage and prove myself worthy of standing at his side.”

Yes, I would fucking hold myself to the standard that earned Agron’s respect, the standard that Nasir had set with his strength of purpose and indomitable spirit.

Naevia looked away, swallowing with visible effort.  Tucking chin to chest, she blinked at her feet before whispering, “Nasir told there was worthy motivation.  He assured you would explain and I would understand.”  She slowly filled her lungs and then released the air on a gusty breath.  “And -- fuck the gods -- his words prove true yet again.”

“Did I not mention -- fucking irritating, eh?”  As she chuckled ruefully, I chewed briefly on my lip before I dared to opine, “If Crixus has not yet echoed these sentiments, it is only because a gladiator speaks his heart best with hands and battle cry.  He knows you stand capable.”

She threw her arms skyward in frustration.  “He stood a champion of the arena!  What more is he compelled to prove?”

“His love for you.”  She blinked and I grinned in bemusement.  “The man is but a breath away from exploding with it.  Had we not provided him Sedullus, he would have embarked on an even more gods-fucked venture.”

“Would you have done the same?” she asked.  “Issued challenge were an attempt made upon Agron?”

“Yes.”  Absolutely and absent hesitation.  “For Agron, for Nasir, for Spartacus, Crixus, Donar, Chadara, _****you****_ had you permitted it ** _ ** _._**_**   For anyone I call brother, sister, friend.”

Nodding her acceptance of my words, she angled gaze toward Gallic camp.  “I suppose I’ve permitted him enough time to brood.”

“I beg of you, Naevia.  Save us from the temper of the Undefeated Gaul.”

She sputtered, choked, bit her lip and fucking giggled.  “I shall see it done!”

I watched her set foot to path, shoulders squared and spine straight, clearing the way ahead with peals of laughter made bright again.  Thank the gods.  Nasir would have had my balls had I fucked that up.

Propping fists upon hips, I permitted myself a moment of accomplishment, truthful and heartfelt words tasting sweet upon tongue.

Speaking of tastes upon tongue, I had yet to take midday--

“Ahem.”

Whipping around, I stared at Castus.  He held two bowls of gruel, extending both so that I might choose one.

Fucking perfect timing.  A genuine talent or arduously-mastered skill?  Hm.  An unknown I would add to all the others.

“Gratitude,” I trilled, collecting the offering from his left hand.

Castus eyed me critically.  “Did you not call me friend once?”

Ah.  He had overheard my proclamation to Naevia.

What was more, Castus uttered truth.  Although, when spoken, I’d held no expectation of my rash irreverence to be taken as fact.  Still, I would not break my word.

Gulping down a spoonful, I replied, “I believe I did, yes.”  When Castus shifted guiltily, I lowered bowl and leaned close, scanning him for signs of mistreatment.  “Have you been harassed?” I demanded.

Castus shied back, a soft smile slowly curving his lips.  “No, friend.  I am unharmed.”

“Hm,” I grunted.  Stirring my portion, I mused, “You stand surprised that I would come to your aid?”

He hesitated.

I struggled against the persistent burn of offense.  If Castus thought so little of me, what opinion did my own kin hold?

“A custom unknown to me,” he admitted abruptly.  “My ‘brothers’ -- each man stands alone.  Fights alone.  We do not… no one has ever…”

My lip curled with distaste.  “You’ve done well to rid yourself of them.  Men of poor quality stand only for themselves.”

Castus said nothing.  When I looked up, his gaze dropped to his midday meal.

“Eat,” I bid him.  “Should the Veteran permit it, I would judge your progress for myself.”

The Numidian chuckled.  Eyes twinkling, he replied, “You would tumble upon ass and make attempt to skewer me with blade for what purpose?”

My brows twitched and my chin jerked to the side.  With mock seriousness, I teased, “How else are we to prove ourselves of any worth to the other?”

“Have you no soft beds or sweet words east of the Rhine?”

I snorted hard enough to turn heads from four paces away.  “We do, but we must fight for them.”

“In that case, I humbly submit myself to evaluation.”

I clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder.  “Evaluation, yes, but what’s more, let us make our ancestors proud.”

Perhaps the concept was as foreign to Castus as Crixus’ compulsion to earn his place beside his lover was to Naevia.  Despite that, the Numidian fought well.  For a slippery, shifty, smiling shit.  When I punched his shoulder in congratulations, the contact startled an expression of genuine pleasure from the man.

“You do not fight alone,” I observed, still panting from exertion.

“Yes,” Castus concurred quietly.  “I see that now.”

Perhaps he did.  Time would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Duro is falling for Aurelia! This is the "she" he was thinking about back in "Rebels" whenever he thought of Pompeii. (Yeah, I totally think they would be good for each other.)
> 
> Duro briefly mentions his father. More on Agron and Duro's family in Germania LATER. (Oh, yeah, I'm really holding onto the mystery here. WITH A DEATH GRIP.)
> 
> This line: _Perhaps my brother was not the only one that the gods had crafted a plan for._  
>  Duro is thinking of how Agron truly came into his own (i.e. "reach[es] his true measure") at Vesuvius due to their capture by Rome and meeting Nasir. (The Path, Chapter 7)


	7. Clash of Rivals

Tents.

Their forms dotted the landscape as far as the eye could see.  Even from elevated position provided by city wall, there appeared no end to the men and women who had cast off collar and abandoned Roman service.

Thousands.

A number easily to dismissed during the day with distractions plentiful.  Walking among the worn paths, each pass of feet carving tracks deeper between rawhide shelters and wagons and carts, a man’s awareness traveled no further than the next wind-snapped length of fabric or clatter of training blades or scent of stew or gruel.

Leaning against top edge of stone wall, I counted the tiny campfires dotting Metapontum’s plain.  Some were only faintly visible as flickering reflections upon nearby, shifting forms.  To the west, the Gauls.  To the north, the mosaic of Numidians, Syrians, Greeks, Nubians, Iberians, Celts, Sardinians, Judeans, and more.  To the east, the men and women who hailed from the lands east of the Rhine.

A peaceful night, yet I had not forgotten Spartacus’ words -- these people made war upon their own neighbors as often as they did upon encroaching auxiliaries and Roman conscripts.

A sudden puff of wind sent my hair whipping across cheek and lips.  I shivered.

A hand upon my shoulder.  Agron’s gaze met mine, his brows tilted together in silent inquiry.

I jerked chin toward eastern camp.

His palm rubbed in reassuring gesture.  “Hm?”

“Germans yet stand as kin.”

Agron grinned, teeth gleaming in the moonlight.  “Nemetes underestimates opponent.”

Glancing past Agron’s chest, I noted the distance between us and Nemetes’ main rival: Duro.  He idly twirled spear in grasp, sauntering along the stone pathway, attention fixed upon our charges below.  “Gods save us should he ever lose spirit,” I mumbled, amazed by Duro’s unending energy and optimism.  “Has he always been such a boy at heart?”

Agron grunted, amused.  “Overshadowed at times, but yes.  When we first set foot upon ludus sands, our arrival was met with threats, jeering calls…”

Not unlike the reception endured by the last batch of slaves purchased by Batiatus.

“I gave no shit for any of it,” Agron claimed.

“And Duro?” I prompted, knowing Agron awaited both response and encouragement.

“The fucking idiot laughed.”

Of course he had.  “I too assumed he held no cares beyond his own amusement.”

“And what enlightening event opened your eyes?”

I told him of the moment Duro had confronted me over the death of Aulus and the lung-crushing weight that had commanded my thoughts as I had obsessed over the manner of punishment I would receive -- or worse yet bring upon my beloved Germans -- for assisting in Magistrate Calavius’ capture.

To refuse would have endangered Agron and Duro.

Yet my obedience could have just as easily doomed them.

Agron’s fingers curled briefly.  He bowed his head, tilting chin against chest, but when I looked close, he was not scowling as expected but biting down hard upon his own grin.

“What?”

“I--no.  It is of the past.”

“Nonetheless!” I hissed, abandoning grip upon sheathed sword’s pommel and grabbing my lover’s arm.

He heaved a weary chuckle and braced palms flat upon the battlements, shaking his head at the distant flickering fires.  “Do you recall the manner of welcome you received in ludus cage?”

I shrugged.

“I trusted you on sight?” he nudged.

I snorted.  “No.  Though it amazed that a man of your form and skill would see a threat in me.”

He rotated chin, neither denying nor elaborating.  Instead, he said, “And the following day?”

“You… invited me to sit and take meal.”

“Duro extended that invitation.”

Ah, yes.  “You informed me of intent to bathe.  Was that not an invitation to join you?”

“It was.  Duro’s did not leave you in doubt of his meaning.  He is more skilled with words… and with people.”  In response to my puzzled frown, he elaborated, “Who offered you instruction in stretching before taking rest?  Who first coaxed laughter from you?  Who set you at ease?”

Duro had.  “Did he not do so for his own amusement?”

“A welcome happenstance…”  His pursed lips tucked up and to the side in response to humorous thoughts.  “…while endeavoring to befriend the man to whom Spartacus, champion of Capua, had admitted owing debt.”

I gaped.

Agron elaborated, “Spartacus called for you to sit with him… fuck.  I wanted nothing to do with that self-important, cocky, little Thracian, but Duro’s words at evening meal convinced me to make attempt at alliance.”

I vaguely recalled Agron’s glare directed at Spartacus that evening as Duro had beamed friendly smiles my way.

He admitted, “I was certain Duro and I required no allies; Crixus had not yet returned to training and Spartacus gave no shit for anyone beyond Varro.”

It had been every man for himself, then.  In such circumstances, yes, perhaps Agron and Duro could have held their own.

Agron rocked his hands open, fingers splayed in a shrug, weight balanced upon blade of palm.  “But Duro insisted -- only fools would abandon opportunity to earn gratitude from the Bringer of fucking Rain.”

“Through me,” I coughed, still overwhelmed with disbelief.

“So remained his primary motivation for, perhaps, a day,” Agron confessed with a considering moue.

“And thereafter?”

Agron arched a brow at me.  “He made attempt -- badly concealed at times -- to aid me in winning your favor.”

This I also remembered well; Duro had asked of my preferences on the second day -- in the baths -- as Agron had stood tense and fuck the gods had I but looked I might have laid eyes upon proof of his body’s response to my touch.

Blinking, I tilted my chin and considered my lover.  I could not recall taking notice of his cock before I had made it clear that I welcomed his attentions, after which he’d made no attempt to conceal himself from me.  In any manner.

For a man who had never before known a Roman house slave, he had been remarkably skilled in his interactions with me.

However, this was not the matter of the moment.  Nor was this the place where I would reward him for tactful endeavor and forthright honesty.

I turned thoughts back to Duro’s blunt, long-past inquiry toward whether I favored cock or cunt.  In that moment, I had assumed he’d voiced the query out of his own interest.  Agron had cut off his brother’s protests before Duro could state truth in plain words.  It had made little difference.  Mere heartbeats later, I had tallied up each of Agron’s gentle touches upon my skin and come to realization.

Still, Duro had indeed worked to assist Agron in determining the likelihood of favorable response from me.  I recalled: “Effort you called for him to cease at least once.”

Agron’s jaw clenched.  “Fucking idiot played, enjoying my infatuation.  He assumed I regarded you as idle distraction.”

“Until he woke to the sight of me lying in your arms.”  The evidence for this: Duro’s show of regret at ludus water cache when he had openly admitted to ignoring his brother’s wishes.

“I held my heart.  In a fucking Roman ludus.”  Agron met my gaze, heartache in his eyes.  My chest thrummed in response.  What may have been: the certain and imminent death…  No, I would not allow such thoughts to take root in either of us now.

I reached out and petted his rough cheek, reassuring, “You ever gave honest sentiment.”

I had never doubted Agron’s true feelings from moment to moment.  He hid nothing of what he felt.  I had not questioned him then; I did not question him now.

“Duro, however,” I mused, leaning forward to aim a look at my little brother.  “He extended hand in friendship in order to further position.”

Did I feel shock, outrage, amusement, or pride?  I was just as uncertain of that quandary as I was of whether aimed at Duro or myself.

“Fuck the gods,” I sighed out, shaking my head.  “My eyes were shrouded.”

Agron generously appraised, “Take comfort in seeing him truly, as a man capable… while Nemetes’ own stubbornness yet clouds gaze.”  My lover rocked back on his heels and straightened.  “In truth, Duro often acts absent intent, guided by an intuition I’ve little notion of.”

“Yet you trust it.”  That much was clear.  Agron trusted his brother’s sense of people.  Trusted it with his own life, with my life, with Duro’s.

“There have stood one or two exceptions.”

Ah, of course: Vipio.

And another we were yet monitoring.

“You two are fucking shit at lookout duty!”

Honestly.  Duro did not have to sound so fucking overjoyed at catching his brother and I in a moment of private conference.

“Fuck off,” Agron replied adroitly, “’til we cease speaking of you.”

“Of me!” Duro yipped, trotting over all the while leading with an accusingly pointed finger.  “Heed this moron at your own risk, Nasir.”

Agron rolled his eyes.  “I tell Nasir of your strategy to gain alliance with Spartacus.”

Duro paused, poised on the brink of temper, and glanced from his brother to me.

I quirked a brow.

Evidently sensing that I held no ill feelings toward him for past scheming, he stood tall and cocked head.  “Well.  It met with fucking success.  And much fucking in your case.”  He gestured between the two of us with a flippant flick of wrist.  “Though I’ve yet to hear words of gratitude for my efforts.”

“Your efforts!” Agron huffed, swelling with indignation.

Motion in the shadows beyond Duro’s turned back: three forms making quiet approach from walkway ladder.  Germans arriving to relieve us of charge.

“My fucking efforts!” Duro insisted.  “Who ordered you two to share bench, eh?  Fucking took long enough for you to see wisdom of--”

“FUCK THE MAN FROM BEHIND!” Harudes bellowed, uncaring of midnight hour.

Duro startled so hard I glimpsed moonlight reflecting off of the pale stone that should have been beneath his feet.

“By the gods, little brother, you are shit at lookout duty!” I scolded, overzealous with glee.

Agron giggled.

“You are the little brother!” Duro stubbornly informed and promptly rounded on the newcomers.

Lugo was grinning madly at Duro’s predicament.

Saxa smirked.

To a victorious Harudes, Duro shouted: “How does a dim goatfuck such as you learn words in common tongue?”

“Eh?” the hairy German grunted in befuddlement.

Lugo slapped the man on the shoulder.  Speaking in the tongue from the lands east of the Rhine, the boisterous man explained, “For all my efforts, the crazed goat recalls only a smattering of teachings.”

“A crazed goat am I?” Harudes retorted in German, shoving himself against Lugo’s chest and speaking directly into his kinsman’s face.  “And what shall we call the fool of a witless fuck who would provide instruction to such a creature?”

Saxa guffawed.  “Both of you are stink scraped from between the toes of dead swine!”

Harudes grimaced.

Lugo grinned, either at Saxa’a craft of insult or Harudes’ weak-stomached reaction.

I myself was beginning to wonder if the resolution I’d recently made to double my efforts in learning German tongue had been too hastily undertaken.  There were few substances I could imagine to be more foul than the vile concoction Saxa recklessly described.  Ugh.

Lugo shoved Harudes aside and turned to Duro, purpose hardening his normally twinkling eyes.  “What is that smiling, Numidian shit called?” he queried.  “The one that clings to your side as moss to fucking tree.”

“Moss that fucks a tree,” Harudes chortled to himself.  Saxa whacked him upon back of skull and pointed him toward his post.

Duro answered, “Castus.  He is called Castus.”

Lugo grunted and exchanged a loaded look with Saxa.

“Scheiße,” Saxa sighed.  To Duro, she demanded to know, “You hold memory of name.  Hold you regard for him as well?”

Duro’s chin jerked back in affront.

Agron stiffened.

I braced myself.

“What--fucking--it matters not.  What of him?” he barked, flustered.

“He is a fucking pirate!” Harudes blurted.  “And a spy!”

Saxa watched carefully for our reactions.

Agron gave it: “Fuck!  Fuck the fucking gods!  I _****knew****_  he smelled of shit for cause!”

Yes, Agron’s instincts had spoken true.  Here at last was confirmation akin to what Duro and I had suspected for many close-lipped weeks.  I prayed Agron would not take note of our lack of shock and outrage.

Ha.  Fucking unlikely.

Jaw clenched, I looked away.  Bit off a breath as I shook my head.  At best, Agron would manage to wait for the privacy afforded by four walls to make accusation.

“A spy.  A pirate,” Duro repeated very carefully.  “How do you come by this?”

Perhaps Lugo, Saxa, and Harudes heard disbelief in his tone.  To my ears, there was no mistaking the thinned quality as anything but stress.  Stress, not because Duro hesitated to believe the accusations but because our connection to such a villain was known fact.

“Nemetes,” Lugo answered, “detains your Numidian on rumor voiced by those Cilicians -- Heracleo and his shits -- that dropped anchor in harbor two dawns previous.  They seek him by name and claim him as brother.”

And yet they had made little effort to scour the streets of Metapontum for him themselves.  Uncomfortable at being so unburdened of iron and steel, perhaps.  The ban upon weapons within city walls remained in full effect, from harbor dock to city gate.

Apparently, they hadn’t bothered to secure a berth along the river delta.  Despite being permitted to bear arms in the camp, it would be the height of foolishness for known pirates to walk among so many freed slaves.  Perhaps some among Spartacus’ army had even been transported within the squalid hull of Heracleo’s ship to Roman shores.  Very few of our battle-ready brothers and sisters would stay the urge to slit Cilician throat and spill pirate guts.

The very predicament Castus now found himself in.

“Fuck,” Duro spat, sighed, shoulders slumped.  He passed his spear to Saxa and took two purposeful steps toward the ladder, but then drew himself up and paused.  Glanced back.  Gazed upon me and Agron as though we had every right to leave him to face confrontation absent aid.  Ridiculous, foolish pup.

I snorted and bumped Agron’s arm as I claimed my place at Duro’s side.

Saxa’s arm shot out to halt my young brother’s departure.  “Let that moron be seen with the Numidian.  Rumors will quickly spread that Nemetes befriends a known fucking pirate.”

It would mean the end of not only Nemetes’ ambitions, but his life as well.  A fate Castus would share with him, and whatever information the man held which might aid our cause would remain forever unvoiced.

“I must go,” Duro regretfully informed.

The same regret echoed within me -- before the end of coming day, how many allies would turn from us due to this maneuver?

But how was Spartacus’ life and the fate of our cause not worth the risk?

Lugo scanned Duro’s resolute expression.  He shrugged and moved aside.

Saxa huffed.  “Fucking waste of opportunity.”

She, more than even the three of us, would greatly enjoy the sight of Nemetes suffering the sting of his own scheming.  I prayed, for Gannicus’ sake, that the Celt and Saxa had parted company on amicable terms.

Harudes offered no response to our departure except a nod and a long, heartfelt sigh as he pissed over wall’s edge.

Fucking goat.

“For what fucking purpose do we wade waist deep in shit to claim that useless fuck as friend and ally?” Agron groused as we hurried from lowest ladder rung and along narrow street toward city gate.

Duro squeezed out, “Because I fucking named him friend.”

A pregnant pause.  Agron shook his head in disgust.  “Fuck.”

I frowned, confusion and queries swirling in mind and blurring upon tongue.  I waited for it, but Agron did not ask if anyone had heard Duro’s declaration.  Castus and Duro had.  Presumably, that was more than sufficient to bind us to course.

“Pause a moment,” I bid quietly within sight of city gate.  As Agron drew up, still scowling mightily, I spoke to Duro, “What advantage is there in you stepping forward against Nemetes?”

Duro blinked, lips twitching with disbelief rather than humor.  “You volunteer?”

Agron’s hands fisted.

“I only advise caution and forethought,” I backtracked.  “Haste provides the confirmation Nemetes seeks.”

Duro considered my words, but it was Agron who, jerking his chin in my direction, snarled at his brother, “Fucking let him.”

I gaped openly at Agron in amazement.

Agron glared.  Though turned upon me for briefest moment, its heat nearly blistered flesh and I recalled the burn upon my right forearm.  As my hand fisted and muscles twitched in mindless memory, Agron snapped: “Our losses will be even greater otherwise.”

“No,” Duro flatly refused.  “Unless you would have it known that you and Nasir part company, none will believe that you do not stand with him beside Castus, and therefore I with you.”  My young German brother shook his shaggy head.  “I take proper fucking place at forefront and answer that shit’s challenges.”  He once more glanced between me and Agron.  “With my brothers at my side.”

“I would argue it wiser to distance yourself,” I insisted.

Exhaling, Duro reached out and placed a hand upon my shoulder.  “I heed your words, but Agron and I have not yet taught you enough of German customs.”

I turned to Agron, honestly uncertain of his response.  A moment of silent communication passed between my Germans before he gave a single, lock-jawed nod of assent.

I did not fucking understand.

But my lack of comprehension was irrelevant.  Our course was set and I would stand with them, whether I agreed wholly or not.

We reclaimed weapons from Tilius and Leviticus who currently stood guard at city gate and made our way toward eastern camp.  With each step, murmurs increased and eyes followed our progress.

Nemetes greeted us warmly from where he brazenly lounged at fireside.  Within sight sat Castus, hands bound at wrist before him as he visibly chewed back words of helpless outrage.  His face twitched with feeling upon sight of us.  Disbelief followed by a single desperate look cast into the dirt at Duro’s feet.

“A pirate shit that speaks truth!” Nemetes chuckled, drawing the attention of the ever-thickening crowd and gesturing grandly toward his guest.  “We are indeed witness to rarest of breeds.”

Duro’s brows arched with amusement.  “A pirate?  You have not cast gaze upon enough Cilicians if you mistake this Numidian for one.”

Nemetes got to his feet slowly.  Approached us on a swagger.  Tilting chin up, he projected accusation, “Do you deny this fuck your arm in friendship?”

Mashing his lips together in blatant show of consideration, Duro scanned Castus.  “A warrior of good form who trains under the Veteran--”  To Nemetes, Duro inquired, “You would not have such a man stand with you against Roman legions?”

“I would have a man unmarked by his conquests!”  He pointed to the tattoos inked upon Castus’ bare torso.  Markings that could mean anything or nothing to those unskilled in deciphering them.  If Nemetes claimed skill in this, he betrayed himself as an associate of pirates!

Duro handily countered: “So your favor of Sedullus shows -- he was marked not by conquest but by goatfucked and failed endeavor.”

Nemetes charged forward.  Duro gave no ground as the man hissed, “And by whose words is Sedullus lost to us?”

“Yours,” Duro laughed, fully as fearless and irreverent as I had ever seen him to be.  “Had you but assured him you would yet gladly lick his hole following well-deserved and honorable apology to Crixus--”

“A fucking Gaul!”

“A fucking warrior who has fought his way free of Roman shackles!  As have you--” Duro shouted, pointing to Vertiscus, “and you and you and you!”  More than simply the four Duro singled out stood taller at the implied praise.  Duro faced Nemetes and gave blunt reminder: “Spartacus saw the bindings from your hands.”

“And what would Spartacus say,” Nemetes snapped through a toothy grin, “of you extending mantle toward a spy and turning your back upon kin?”

“I follow Spartacus,” Duro answered lightly, gleefully, “and call no man my kin who does not stand so!”

Thus, the line was drawn.

Nemetes toed it: “You follow a madman to Pluto’s gates.”

“State preferred destination, then,” Duro invited, “and let each man and woman make choice.”

The blond German answered, “Then let us waste no more time!  Provisions and wagons are readied.  Those who follow sense move east and _****north****_  where much plunder awaits!  We shall strip Rome naked and leave the entire fucking Republic quivering, ever fearful of our return!”

My lip curled in disgust even as a fair number of battle cries gave robust support.

The fire light flickered upon Agron’s disapproving moue.

Duro nodded amicably, waiting for the cheers to die down.  And then he spoke: “Spartacus forces no one to surrender plunder and asks only that iron -- however obtained -- is submitted to the forge for the crafting of additional weapons.  Armed with these, Spartacus would see brothers and sisters delivered to safety, and then he would soak these lands with Roman blood.  If you seek riches, dig for them yourself in the fucking mines and take them untainted by Roman touch.  As for me, I would have eternal glory and the head of my enemy!”

Agron led the roar of approval.  My fist and voice joining the chorus that surged up into the night air.

“Let each man and woman so choose!” Agron bellowed.

Vertiscus and Totus echoed the shout, which passed from mouth to mouth through the ranks.

Amid the clamor, Nemetes nodded toward Castus, “Let us begin with this one.”

At the Numidian’s wide-eyed look, I realized that he had understood none of the words spoken for the entire discourse had been uttered in coarse German tongue.

I gave abrupt translation: “Do you follow Nemetes and his promise of plunder or Spartacus to the defeat of Rome?”

To his credit, the mention of plunder caused no reaction whatsoever.  “Spartacus,” he spoke readily and with eyes blazing.  “I follow Spartacus to the gates of Rome.”

Very well.  Perhaps Castus and I _****would****_  be made brothers of battle as he had once foolishly teased and I had hastily disregarded.  In the cooling splash of Roman blood and squelch of gore, may it be so.

In the meantime--

“You will prove it!” Totus declared, stepping forward.  Vertiscus moved with him and Duro gestured for Castus to stand and extend hands.  He sliced the twine from the Numidian’s wrists a moment before a training blade was thrust into his hands.  Duro grabbed a blunted blade as well.  Vertiscus and Totus claimed a wooden gladius each.

I stood with Agron as a space was hastily cleared for the four combatants.  Duro and Castus against Totus and Vertiscus.

“Duro?” Castus murmured tersely.

“No man fights alone in this army, Castus.”

The words made little sense to me, but then they were not meant for my ears.  Castus seemed to know their meaning.  He resolved to purpose with visible effort, facing Vertiscus with narrow-eyed focus and solid stance.

Agron sucked in a deep breath and hollered a single word: “Begin!”

Duro ducked beneath Totus’ opening swing, jabbed elbow to gut, and with back of arm flat across throat, swept the man’s feet out from under him.

Fuck.  My German brother had had no need of the sword in his grasp at all.

As Totus blinked up at Duro from prone position upon back, Castus managed to twist under Vertiscus’ guard and, with momentum gained, spun the man over his shoulders and toppled him to the dirt.

Fast matches, both.  Clear victories.

Totus laughed as Duro helped him up.  They clasped arms.

“I fight at your side, brother,” Totus announced with joy.

Castus hesitated over how to acknowledge defeated opponent.

Vertiscus’s brows lifted in expectation.

The Numidian’s lips quirked into a rueful grin.  “Apologies,” he spoke, finally extending a hand.  “I did not anticipate this outcome.”

The German chuckled and enacted a show of pulling himself upright with mighty effort and much straining on Castus’ part.  Once vertical, he clapped Castus on the shoulder.  “I would fight at your side in battle, treacherous shit.”

“And I yours.”

“Then let us face two more!” Vertiscus shouted.  Turning to those assembled, he dared, “Who would fucking challenge us?”

Two men readily volunteered.  Totus and Duro surrendered their training blades and cheered for the combatants of the second match.  The third.  The fourth.

I found myself battling beside Duro, and then Castus, and then Agron as the men and women who would test our readiness, stepped forward, bandied blades, and swore themselves to Spartacus’ cause.

At some point, Nemetes disappeared, slinking away and through the shadows to gather like-minded followers.  Well.  Let him.  I tumbled opponent to dirt, blade to his unshaven throat, and flinched aside as Agron threw his challenger over a shoulder.  The man landed hard with an explosive groan of defeat echoed by the boisterous crowd.

Agron’s breath puffed against my sweaty neck.  The placement of bulging thighs and swift feet remained tucked close to my form for a moment longer than necessary, shielding me.  I twisted toward him and my brows arched when he made no move to retreat.

“Do you face me next?” I guessed through a grin as my heart pounded and blood raced from the fight.

“No,” he answered quietly and I blinked at the steel which sharpened his tone, “but soon.”

He held out his arm to me.  I clasped it but asked no more from him.  Not here.  Not now.  Not until we had broken words in private.

No, Agron had not forgotten my lack of surprise at learning of Castus’ profession.

“One-man-army Nasir!  We fight next!”

Agron tossed his blunted weapon into the burly German’s hands and I barely had time to marvel that the guard upon Metapontum’s city wall must have changed and now Saxa demanded a fight beside Castus.

_****Clack!** ** _

_****Thump!** ** _

_****Crack!** ** _

_****Thwap!** ** _

The four of us crashed against each other.  Lugo roared when he found himself at Saxa’s mercy and Castus grinned brightly when I sat upon his chest for the second time since first crossing swords with the shit.

“I do not yet present proper challenge,” he lamented, panting, “but I would be a man of my word.”

I rose up and offered my arm.  “Through honest effort, see it done,” I replied evenly.

He beamed as though I had offered him his life back into his hands.  I stiffened against what was sure to come: more meaningless charm and slick flattery.

Instead, Castus’ smile coasted past me toward the man standing at my back.  I turned and found Duro looking on with a broad grin, Agron with hand upon pommel of sheathed sword at hip.

No, it had not been me to offer Castus a second chance.  It had been Duro.

But I would no sooner leave him to shoulder this sly pirate’s weight than Agron would.  I would stand with my brothers come what may.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fandom friend (previously known as FuckinGauls on AO3) and I fleshed out Duro's motivation for befriending Nasir in the ludus waaaay back in our comments on Chapter 3 of The Path. Here's where the thread starts if you're curious:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/comments/155060364  
> I really enjoy the idea of Duro having fantastic people skills at the onset of this fic, but since Nasir (our narrator) didn't really notice it (because, yeah, he had lots of other things to worry about at that time), neither did we (the readers).
> 
> More hints in this chapter regarding the complexities of German culture. I know I haven't explained why Duro feels it's best to publicly stand up for Castus. There will (hopefully) be a time and place for this later.
> 
> Back when Naevia defended herself against Sedullus (Rebels: Chapter 4), I promised that the encounter would eventually spark a historical AU. Here it is: by most accounts, it was Crixus who took off with something like 10,000 (or as many as 30,000) fighters (after their victory at Vesuvius in 73 B.C. or perhaps the following spring?) and pillaged their way north along Italy’s east coast. In APMF, it’s Nemetes who spearheads the separation, but only after he has allowed enough time to gather supplies and make sure the warriors are trained up. This dude rolls with loaded dice every chance he gets. More on what becomes of him LATER.


	8. Open Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sexytimes

Dawn.

Spartacus looked from Duro to me to Castus to Agron, and drew a deep breath as he straightened from desk’s edge.  Flame danced upon lamp wick, offering teasing glimpses of the maps that Mira gathered up as the rising sun spilled a rosy blush through nearby window.  Her gaze was locked upon the Numidian and had not wavered since the four of us had crossed threshold to deliver unwelcome news: Nemetes would part company, drawing hundreds -- perhaps thousands -- from our ranks.  Though my brothers and I had fought through the night, though we had drunk and laughed and wrestled, it had not been enough to persuade every German to fight for our cause.  For Spartacus’ cause.  But we had done our best.

Spartacus drew a deep breath.  Arms crossed, he fixed his attention upon Castus and quietly commanded, “Tell of how this has come to pass.”

Hours had passed since Duro had cut the bindings from Castus’ wrists, but the Numidian’s arms and hands flexed as though he yet suffered the chafe of rough twine.  He visibly gathered his battle-tested composure and, looking to our leader, gave account:

“I am called Castus.  I arrived from Heraclea, traveling on foot among slaves.”

“One of which you were not,” Mira accused with the fire of Athena herself blazing in her eyes.

Castus did not argue the point.  “In recent days, my eyes have been opened to the fact that I was rightfully counted among their number.”

Gaze touching briefly upon Duro, Castus squared his own shoulders and braced himself for my little brother’s reaction.  “I set foot for Metapontum on orders of my captain, Heracleo.  Having been his most trusted man for some years, I was appointed task of learning all I could of Spartacus’ army and its intended movements.”

The soft creak of leather interrupted the soft silence of dawn; Mira exhaled shakily and forced fisted hand to release crushed folds of vellum.

“Continue,” Duro spoke, watching Castus as though the room contained only the two of them.

Licking his lips, Castus complied: “I made careful approach, spending several days learning all I could of the men Spartacus trusted.  I then chose the one I believed I could persuade to loosen tongue.”  The Numidian’s gaze flicked toward me.  “A trusted brother and former house slave: the Syrian Nasir.”

Agron drew a very tightly contained breath.

I asked of Castus, “Would a warrior not be more prone to boast?”

“If rumor held truth, Spartacus would break words with you first and foremost of his secrets and plans.”  He additionally admitted with an admirable show of contrition, “And… I have some skill in dealing with house slaves of Rome.”

As a pirate, yes, he would have been called upon to manipulate and manage many captured men and women.  A fact that did not endear him to me.

Agron released a blustery sigh, shaking his head.  “Fucking moron.  Nasir would sooner die than betray his brothers.”

And yet, how close had Castus come to achieving his aim that night in the hall when I had been laid low by unexpected revelation and hazy with drink?  I locked form and face tightly, giving no outward sign of sudden, spiking panic.  Nor did Duro incriminate me with telling glance.

Castus offered a weak smile.  “Yes.  Nasir’s loyalty is steadfast.”  Perhaps unable to endure Duro’s open expression, Agron’s blazing fury, or my cold silence, he spoke to Spartacus: “When I could learn nothing useful, I was instructed to continue seeking position of advantage.”

“Advantage for what?” Mira demanded.

“For whatever service would yield substantial coin from our employer.”

Such as assassination, abduction, or sabotage.

“You passed no news to Heracleo or his crew?” Spartacus ferreted.

“Weeks past -- just before ship weighed anchor,” Castus bit out, straining against instincts that clearly advised he hold tongue, “I met with a crewmate by name of Adherbal one final time and spoke of what I had heard uttered in my presence -- the venture east to seek safety upon Greek shores before turning intent toward assault on Rome.”

“And you stand with us in this?” Spartacus said.  “Though it is by your lips these plans are known to Rome?”

Castus shifted guiltily.  “I would recommend making alteration--”

“To whom was this news sold?  A senator?” Mira asked sharply.

Castus shook his head.  “A wealthy Roman.  The wealthiest.”  At our prompting stares, he offered a name: “Marcus Licinius Crassus.”

Duro frowned and looked to me for a sign that I recognized it.

My jaw clenched.  Yes, I fucking knew of the man, but I would not speculate in Castus’ presence on the meaning behind Crassus’ interest.

“Heracleo publicly claims you as one of his men,” I reminded all.  “A rumor that would see you dead.”

Castus nodded.

“Or would he see you here, now?  Standing in the same room with Spartacus?”

Lifting both hands in a show of truce, Castus charmingly insisted, “Should that be his aim, I have no knowledge of it, nor do I willingly submit to it.”

“You will submit to my orders?” Spartacus tested.

“I will.”

The Thracian glared in thought.  “Nasir, know you a place suitable for Castus?”

I did.

My Germans and I provided escort to Simon’s sprawling infirmary.  As always, no less than half a dozen young men and women roamed the halls, even now in the first hour of a new day.

The sound of our arrival drew a sleepy-eyed Cholle from the pallet she shared with Glima.  Her face lit up upon sight of us and I smothered a wave of guilt beneath a smile of welcome; it had been nearly a week since my travels had brought me here.  I would pay my little monsters proper visit today.

I knelt to accept her embrace.  Agron lifted her up in his arms to receive a brisk hug.  Duro ruffled her hair.

“This is Castus,” I told her, gesturing to the slack-jawed man.

“He is friend?” she asked shyly.

“Not yet,” I answered honestly.  “Street rules for everyone.”  Tapping my ear, I commanded, “Whisper them to me now.”

She did: stay in the open, move in a group, speak not to strangers…

She recited the list well and I placed a kiss upon her brow for reward.  “Tell Glima and the others when they wake.  I will return for midday meal, hm?”

She nodded vigorously and glanced over my shoulder as Agron jabbed Castus in the chest with an accusing finger.  “Duro may call you friend,” my lover growled in a low, dangerous timbre.  “I but await one reason to call you enemy.”

“Warning heeded,” the Numidian assured him.

I gave direction to Simon’s assistants to see Castus settled and watched.  Not only for the safety of the healers and the children who resided here, but for Castus as well.  I then tapped Agron’s elbow and waved for Duro to finish tucking Cholle back into her blankets.  All three of us required food and rest before facing our next endeavor.

When we arrived at our domus, Agron saw us both across the threshold and then said flatly, “I would first have words with Spartacus.”

I drew breath to inquire--

The door banged shut behind him.

Duro sighed.  “Fuck.”

Indeed.

I sought distraction from Agron’s slowly steaming fury, busying myself with preparing morning meal, slicing hard cheese and arranging modest portions of salted pork, brine olives, and honeyed dates.  We had grain for barley gruel, but I had not the energy to soak and simmer it.  My hands shook.  My belly had forgotten what hunger was.

Duro pushed aside his still full plate and laid his head upon the table, dozing against the wood.

I paced.  I sat.  I stood.  I braced myself against the side board and stared blankly through the window into shared courtyard.

When Agron returned, I shrank from the sight of deep lines upon his brow and frown tightening his mouth.

“I would speak with Duro,” he said in a very carefully controlled voice.

I retreated to our bedroom, though even through closed door, I heard nearly every word:

“You withheld knowledge.”

“Knowledge of what?” Duro retorted as I removed armament in silence.  “That I shared your fucking suspicions?”

“Yet yours were given form and direction!” Agron hissed.  “Fuck the gods, Duro!  Had you disappeared--had that fucking pirate taken you or Nasir aboard--you would have been halfway to Cilicia before my search led me to the harbor!”

“Perhaps this is why I said nothing!  You would have blindly rushed to aid and gotten yourself captured or worse!”

I gulped at the possibility and retreated to the wash stand.  Water from the pitcher upon hands, face, neck, chest.  I would slick away all thoughts of Agron suffering wounds.

“Fuck, Duro!  Use what remains of your fucking wits!” Agron snarled.  “Our father cannot lose another son!  He cannot lose _****you!”****_

Water dripped from the tendrils that framed my drenched face.  Agron would have tucked them back for me beforehand had he been here.

Duro squawked, “He won’t!”

“Because I would FUCKING GUARANTEE IT!” Agron roared.  “A TASK I AM DOOMED TO FAIL SHOULD YOU WITHHOLD NEEDFUL INFORMATION!”

“It was not needful--”

“That is not your decision to make.  You will tell me all, and I will decide its worth!”

“You fucking swine cock, I can stand on my own!”

There was a long, ominous pause.  “You may be required to.  One day.”

“Don’t--don’t you fucking think it--Nasir would--I would--no!”

The towel twisted in my hands, wrung tightly between clenched fingers.

“Then do you fucking part, brother.”

“Fuck.  Fuck, so be it.”  Duro sighed.  A dish clattered upon tabletop.  His next words were chewed past a full mouth.  “Do not blame Nasir.  He only--”

“Nasir will speak for himself,” Agron interrupted, words clipped, “as he has always done.”

“He stands as my brother, too, Agron.”

I sucked in a deep breath.  My chest shook.  Taking a seat upon bed, I dared to remove my footwear.

Agron huffed.  I imagined him shaking his head with disgust.  “See to your fucking pirate friend as you so clearly value _****his****_  company.”

“You fucking fuck,” Duro warily exhaled.  A loud bang and telling rattle of pottery -- a fist slamming down upon table top.  “You can fucking blame Castus all you like, but Nemetes would have found another excuse to challenge me -- _****any****_  excuse.”

That was true.  And Duro had skillfully turned the attention of all away from accusations made against Castus and upon Nemetes’ own qualities of dubious merit, implying that the man had used Sedullus for his own gain and reminding Nemetes of the fact that Agron, Duro, and Spartacus had seen him freed from shackles.  He owed the Brotherhood his freedom, and yet he would snarl and scheme for Roman scraps.

I braced elbows upon knees and pressed face against palms.  We could not rest overlong, leaving Nemetes free to spew shit that those who yet remained undecided would heed absent more worthy words to invest in.

“Duro.”  A wooden creak.  Did Agron brace palms upon table, leaning and looming over his younger brother?  “Do you keep secrets from me?”

“No, brother.  You have my trust.”

There was a long moment of silence.

Duro added, “I will fucking prove it every day if I must.”

“Is it so much to ask?”

“No.  It is not.”

The scrape of shoes against kitchen floor: Agron straightening with intent to seek my explanation next.  “Eat.  Rest.”

“I fucking will.  Here, take a plate for Nasir.  He has not yet eaten.”

My lips twitched at the sounds of bowls wobbling, fingers scraping against dishes: a platter heaped with food.  Agron did not knock before entering our room.  He sat the plate down upon bedside table and moved toward the wash stand to rinse face, mouth, hands.  I stood and offered him a recently laundered towel.  He took it from me before I could scrub the droplets from his scruffy chin.

He watched me as he dried off.

I blurted: “Adherbal and Castus spoke of Spartacus.”

“And it was to him you broke words.”

“I did.”

“And not me.”  Agron stared hard.  “I would shoulder weight.”

I drew breath, but no words formed upon my tongue.  I could only recall the ludus, Spartacus’ thirst for revenge and his mad scheme to achieve it.  All burdens I had refused to share.

“I held tongue,” I answered, “because you would have gladly slain Castus and forfeit opportunity to mislead those who would offer coin for information on our intentions--”

Agron sucked in a sudden breath, fury building.

“And yet,” I continued, hand upraised, begging for a moment more, “I held faith that you would have heeded Spartacus’ orders and stayed hand.  I only… I could not ask you to endure it.”

“Endure?”

Swallowing, I told, “I have not forgotten the arena.  Burning.  You stood by and watched as I fought for my life.  I would not see your hands so bound while I stood capable of keeping them free.”

Agron looked away.  Exhaled heavily.  “That is not how you protect a brother or a lover.”

“Then how would I not be cruel?  Teach me this,” I invited, exhausted to the point of tears, “for you clearly have a better sense of it than I.”

He tossed the towel aside and shuffled toward the bed, inviting me to join him with an outstretched arm as he leaned heavily against the mattress.  “You know as well as I what stock pirates trade in.  Had Castus’ crew taken you…”  He shook his head, at a loss for words.

“I held concern for Spartacus; he was the target of their intent,” I admitted.  “And you and I were in agreement that Duro could not be left unaccompanied.  I believed I was in no danger.”

“No danger?  No--Nasir,” Agron scolded, “you have told of being followed in city streets.  Watched.”

And Agron apparently believed there could be some connection between that nebulous threat and Heracleo’s schemes.  Perhaps he was correct.  The only way to know for sure would be to fall prey to them, but it would be prudent to assume that events were related.

My eyes squeezed shut.  Fuck.

Gentle fingers cupped my unshaven chin.  “Nasir, I share my heart, body, life, and thoughts with you.  You yet conceal thoughts behind fortifications, for what purpose?”

What purpose, indeed.  I spoke of the villa and the men I had overheard plotting in the middle of the night: “Vipio, Jusix, Moritus.  I thought I recognized their voices as they made preparations, but I did not see their faces and--what if I had been mistaken?  Had I accused them by name in error…”  I ran a hand over my filthy hair.  “I neither saw nor heard Castus’ conference with Adherbal.  I could not make accusation based on Diotimos’ report.”

Agron considered this.  “Mistakes are not unknown to either of us.  In the chaos of battle.  Children and elderly.  Panic-driven slaves…”

Yes, our blades had encountered more than one of each.  Fatally.

“All men err.”  Agron touched my cheek, my shoulder, thumbed the line of skin up to the base of my neck.  “Open hands and release fear.  We are warriors.”

Yes, we were.  Our mistakes would see the innocent to the afterlife.  It had happened in the past and it would again in the future, but to fear it was to stand as a man absent hands in the midst of battle.  A burden to brothers who would fight to protect him and who would fall beside him in defeat.  For the sake of the men, women, and children who looked to me for guidance and protection, I must open hands and release fear.

Meeting Agron’s seeking gaze willingly, I nodded.

He quickly removed his footwear and reclined upon our bed, his callused fingertips inviting me close.  I tucked myself up against his side.

Agron exhaled against my brow.  His breath was hot and his kiss almost hard enough to bruise.  He was still angry, but I could think of nothing to say to ease the discord between us.  I could not even keep my eyes open…

I woke to familiar embrace.  Fingertips tracing patterns upon my chest.  Escaped strands of hair catching in beard stubble.

Agron…

I smiled.  Hummed.  Stretched and arched closer to him--

And then, as I opened my eyes and took in the lines of strain bracketing his mouth, I remembered.

I had disappointed him.

The weight of my own heartache pressed me down against the mattress, leaving me breathless.

I reached for his cheeks.  “Do you wish me to leave?  Take residence with Simon or Spartacus?”

He nuzzled into my palm and pressed a kiss there, murmuring, “I wish… fuck.”

He wished for me to be open.  Not simply in body and not only in heart, but in mind as well.  I scrambled to think of something to offer.  I no longer willfully withheld information from him; surely there was something of value I could speak of!

Agron shifted as though to leave our bed and I reflexively grabbed his arm.  “Pause a moment,” I whispered, licking my lips as my heart hammered against ribs.  “I would speak.”

He relaxed.  “Then I would listen.”

For a moment, I panicked, my mind stupidly blank.

And then I realized: “Crassus.”  I nearly gasped with relief.  “Marcus Licinius Crassus.”

“The wealthiest fuck in Rome,” Agron summarized, expression pinching with confusion.  “What of him?”

“I believe the way north, over the Alps, remains open.”  My lips mashed together to squeeze the sorrow from my words.  “You will see your brother home to loving arms before autumn equinox.”

His jaw dropped.  My fingers curled against his scalp, holding him near.

“What has Crassus to do with it?”

“Everything,” I confessed.  “I would explain.”

Agron settled himself close against my side, our skin sharing warmth and -- fuck -- yes, this.  I could not permit old habits and formless fears to come between us.  As Agron’s fingers combed my hair back from brow with whisperingly light sweeps, he murmured, “We will break words with Spartacus.”

“I would share this with you first.  You are one of his generals, are you not?”

He nodded and a soft, admiring smile touched his features.  “I thought you had forgotten.”

When I had spoken with Spartacus of Castus’ activities, yes, I supposed I had.  No longer.  “I hold no intent to deny you charge.  Your position is well earned.”

He pressed a sweet kiss to my temple.

I told him my thoughts on Crassus, and he attended each word:

Crassus, the wealthiest man in Rome, had been made so by his shrewd sense of opportunity.  He might offer coin for information on the movements of Spartacus’ followers in order to avoid disruption of business dealings and minimize losses… but I suspected another motive: even the wealthiest man in Rome could not purchase everything he desired.  Military prestige, for instance.  In this respect, perhaps he sensed opportunity.

From Agron’s fierce frown, he was struggling to follow my logic.

I said, “The Senate employs men such as Glaber and Varinius to command the Republic’s armies here within Rome, but the greatest of forces -- the legions of professional soldiers -- are sent abroad on campaigns of considerable length and lofty aim.  Pompey commands to the west in Hispania and Lucullus to the east in Pontus.”

Agron nodded.

“Should the Senate recall either general and his forces to face us before the completion of campaign and declaration of victory…”  I shook my head.  “The shame of it could not be borne.”

“Rome would be admitting to the world that it cannot maintain control in its heartland,” Agron guessed.

I nodded.  “How weak is such a nation that cannot quell an uprising of its own slaves?”

Agron grunted with dry humor.

I pressed: “Neither Pompey nor Lucullus will be summoned.  Not yet.  First, the Senate will send domestic armies against us, but Crassus’ interest indicates that he anticipates result…”

My lover finished my thoughts with burgeoning glee, “He holds no expectation of their victory.”

“So Crassus gathers information on Spartacus now.”  I scratched my nails through Agron’s scruffy beard.  “He expects the Senate will turn to him for funds of an amount necessary to assemble legions capable of crushing rebellion _****before****_  sending for Pompey or Lucullus.”

“So we are to face Roman armies next,” Agron summarized, “before Crassus’ legions.”

“And should Crassus fail--”  Gripping my lover’s jaw, I stared hard into his eyes.  “We will then face generals and armies well practiced in subduing entire nations.”    Which we could not best.

Agron was not unaffected by my urgency but was nevertheless undeterred from purpose: “When does all this occur?”

I shook my head with helpless uncertainty.  “Based on other military accounts I have read or overheard?”  My shoulders scrunched in a brief shrug.  “We will fight our way north.  We will suffer losses, but if we commit to purpose and stand together, we hold strong chance of victory.  Once we reach the Alps, the Senate will have no choice but to answer the humiliation we inflict upon Rome and appeal to Crassus for support.”

“Were we to reach the Alps before summer solstice?” Agron prompted.  “You would expect Crassus’ forces to cross in our wake.  Before winter?”

I bared my teeth, lips stretching wide in frustration.  “Winter expeditions require much coin.  He would do better to wait, hire more men and provide ample time for training, but should Pompey or Lucullus secure victory abroad, their swift return to Roman shores may push Crassus to act in haste, lest he forfeit credit.”

“Fucking Roman shits,” Agron muttered, marveling as I now did at the stupidity born from their monumental arrogance.  How they scratched and clawed their way upon belly, slinking toward position and power.  “Should Hispania and Pontus yet resist conquest, we will meet Crassus in battle next spring at earliest.”

Meeting Agron’s resolute glare with my own, I nodded.  “Those are my thoughts on it.”

He exhaled, blinking in the wake of imparted lesson.  “Fuck the gods,” he marveled.  “You are a wonder.”

“I am what Rome has made me to be.  I am what you haveenabled me to be.”

Agron’s mouth curved down into a fierce frown.

I grinned helplessly at his overwrought expression.  “Agron…” I gently chided.

He answered with a kiss, nipping at my lips, and then nuzzling against my neck.  I wrapped my arms around his shoulders as he moved above me, crouching over my thighs as he licked and scraped at my bared skin.  Lapped at a nipple and brushed reverent touch over the scar upon my side.

“Nasir,” he breathed against my belly as his fingers dipped beneath the edge of my subligaria.

“Yes,” I chose, breath gusting up from heaving lungs and fingers clenching in his hair.  I met his passion with mine, arching into his open palms and smiling with pure joy at every appreciative groan.  Gods but the man revered me.  I would honor him in turn.

Cloth torn loose and cast aside, we came together messily, hastily scooped oil smearing over our thrusting lengths, each of us lending hand to endeavor.  I gasped with each powerful surge of his hard cock over mine.  Ah, fuck.  I grabbed his bare hip, nails digging furrows into flesh.  He growled against my neck, lips clamping over pulse and tugging gently.

“Fuck!” I hissed, curling into him, seeking the friction of his chest against mine.

“I would have you longer,” he murmured into my ear.

“And I would have you deep within,” I gasped.

He moaned into my tangled hair.  “So you do.”  Pressing palm over my pounding heart, he leaned back far enough to meet my gaze.  “You have me here.”  His thumb brushed over the curve of muscle and I shivered.  “Always.”

Always.

Always.

Always.

With every slide of skin, the vow was renewed and I opened to it, gave myself to the man who gave himself to me.  His thoughts, his heart, his body, his life.  Such tremendous charge.  What had I ever done to earn it?  I could think of nothing, nothing whatsoever, as my spine twisted with pleasure, arching my form into his movements.  I bit down upon his shoulder, clawed his thigh, and then absent forewarning I was exploding open, releasing myself against him, within his arms, upon his solid form, and I panted from the mind-blanking force of it as he whimpered softly, his release shooting hot and slick upon my belly.  I palmed curve of ass and he gasped through a wide smile.  The rush of inhalation against my humming pulse.

Hm, yes.  This.  I petted his skin and melted into him.

“You will make report to Spartacus before taking midday meal?” I asked once the ability to both summon and form words returned.

“Hm.  Accompany me.”

I tucked my chin, gaining enough distance to squint at him.  “Are you not charged with delivering information?”

“So I am.  Come with me.”

He snuggled closer, unabashed.  Our whiskers would surely scrub telling, raw patches upon skin.  Agron gave no shit for it.  Of course not.  Not the red rash from my unshaven jaw or the raised scratches upon his hips and thighs.  The bite mark upon his shoulder.  He wore all with pride.  Evidence that I chose him.  I chose us.  We chose us.

I teased, “You are no witless oaf -- you can repeat my thoughts to Spartacus.  I have nothing further to add.”

“But he may have inquiries for you.”  Agron rocked back and grinned at me.  “I count it as entertainment watching you and Spartacus concoct schemes to twist Rome’s balls.”

My hand slithered deeper between us to massage his.  Agron’s eyes lost focus, squeezed shut, his jaw hanging loose.  “Fuck,” he huffed and I felt his cock twitch against the spill yet slicking my navel.

I purred.  “I would--”

_****Bang-bang-bang!** ** _

“It is midday!  Cease your fucking,” Duro shouted through the door, “or I shall send the little monsters to hunt you both down!”

Agron’s forehead fell to my shoulder.  I sputtered a laugh and released my hold.

“Truly, I can conceive of no worse fate!” I shouted back.

I heard Duro’s bark of laughter through the door -- yes, he remembered that moment in ludus bath and the threat of thorough cock-sucking.

Agron remembered as well.  He nipped my ear as he sat up and beamed.  His fingertips ghosted over my spent flesh.  “Later,” he promised and I concurred with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My understanding of Roman military office is absolute crap, but I did my best not to bog the chapter down in unnecessary detail. I have Nasir use a lot of vague terminology because Agron probably doesn’t have the patience for the finer points, but I hope Nasir’s explanation isn’t misleading. Also, Nasir’s understanding of what’s been recently happening on frontier battles is based on what he overheard being discussed between Marius and other important Roman dudes when Nasir had still been his body slave. That was a couple of months ago at this point, so some information might be a little outdated.
> 
> “Pompey” was actually born Gnaeus Pompeius (the name “Magnus” was later added on as a nickname meaning “the Great”). But as he’s called “Pompey” in the TV show, I’ll just stick with that. Okie dokie?
> 
> Hispania is (roughly) Spain. Pontus was a kingdom to the west of (and surrounding) the Black Sea; a large portion of modern-day Turkey would have been part of the Kingdom of Pontus (a.k.a. the Pontic Empire) at some point during the Roman Era.


	9. Final Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Sexytimes

Divided.

Duro had once warned that the three of us must stand together or fall divided.  We had -- wisely, I believed -- chosen the former rather than the latter.

Thus, as we now stood beside Spartacus amid sprawling camp, watching the wagons Nemetes had hoarded from raids and the warriors seduced by promise of treasure shrink with lengthening distance upon road to Barium in the north, I could only feel a vague sense of failure amid a frothing sea of frustration

“Fucking Numidian,” Agron gritted out, grinding the words between his molars.

Duro bumped his brother’s arm.

Spartacus assessed: “Nemetes was determined.  This split would have come regardless.”

“He does us a favor,” Duro opined brightly, “in drawing away the fucks who would fight for plunder.”

Yes, it may have been difficult to coax the focus of such men and women away from riches.  Though, Germans alone did not accompany Nemetes.  A smattering of opportunistically inclined men and women from every homeland joined the caravan.

I could only hope that their removal would make leadership a simpler affair for Spartacus.  Presumably, those who remained sought either freedom or vengeance and would be satisfied with opportunity to grasp one or the other for themselves.

Perhaps once the shine of gold dulled, Nemetes’ followers would seek to lend genuine aid to Spartacus’ cause.  It was a thing worth hoping for, but beyond that there was nothing further to be done.

“When do we decamp?” Duro asked.

I reported: “We yet await delivery of needful medicines and cloth.  Diotimos expects their arrival within a week.”

I thought it telling that Nemetes had not bothered to stock these items.  Either he assumed they could be taken from each villa and every urban domus encountered, or he held no intention of placing himself in position to risk requiring them himself.  For the sake of the men and women who mistook him for a leader of worth, I wished for the first assumption to prove true, but dreaded it was the second that stood at forefront of the man’s mind.

“Only a few days behind schedule, then,” Spartacus concluded, satisfied that his plan remained essentially unchanged.

The spring equinox would come the day after tomorrow; Spartacus had always intended for his army to depart Metapontum when day and night drew equal in duration.  Soon we would venture north toward the Alps, gathering numbers and pushing back Roman armies along the way.  Should our fortunes hold, we would face the genuine challenge of crossing the Alps and building a new life beyond Rome.

Timing would be crucial.  Delays would strand us south of the Alps to await the passing of winter.  Haste would give the Senate time to send troops in our wake before the passes closed and we found welcome among new neighbors.

I almost wished I could remain here in Metapontum, make a stand, and fight.  There was little opportunity for worries upon the battlefield.

“What of that fucking pirate?” Agron grunted.

“What of him?” Spartacus challenged playfully.  As though he stood incapable of finding further use for the man.

Agron gave him a warning look.  “Does he become _****lost****_  in the chaos of preparations to depart?”

“Hm.  Duro?” Spartacus solicited either my young brother’s intent or opinion on the matter.

“I would learn his motivation for joining us.”  Duro shrugged off Agron’s scowl.  “Should his tale not be uncommon, we may encounter other men of his ilk who would lend aid… provided motivation is sufficient.”

“The shits would fuck coin had it but a hole.”

The smart _****smack!****  _of Duro’s backhand against Agron’s shoulder was swallowed by the unhurried patter of daily tasks being tended to around us.  “Would you not learn to recognize those greed-sickened cunts?  Castus can tell us much of their ways: how to test them, how to use them to our advantage.”

“How to weight a body properly and see it to the depths of the sea.”

“Oh-ho!”  Duro beamed.  “Even you find some measure of worth in his counsel.”

From Agron’s moue of disgust, I could imagine the bitter taste upon his tongue.

Still, there was no denying that the information offered by Castus -- and its implications -- had given us the gift of confidence.  Absent expectation of success, both man and venture were doomed to failure.  Duro had been the one to teach me that lesson.

Agron crossed his arms.  “I would test his loyalty.”

I choked back a snort of laughter, but the twitch of my shoulders drew the attention of all.  “Ah, he is a pirate.  In this respect, he is not so different from slaves of Rome.  His primary concern is simple: survival.”

“And who does he believe will provide it?” Spartacus mused, bearing a striking resemblance to our former doctore as he anticipated students’ grasp of intended lesson.

“Us,” Duro brashly declared.  “I have made some gains with the man’s trust.”

“He has already abandoned Roman employer and Cilician master, choosing to place his fate in Duro’s hands,” I softly added.

“Or does he await opportunity to cause mischief?” Agron argued.

“He will confide in me,” Duro bragged.

Agron sneered.  “And confess all?”

“Addle-minded goat fart, you forget that I am the most charming fucking man in all the rebellion!”

Spartacus chuckled, but broke no words in effort to claim that honor for himself.  “Assuming Castus does not spill all of his secrets before we depart?”

“Fear not.  The little monsters will keep him in line,” Duro asserted, pulling a brief smile from me.

Even Agron could not present rebuttal to that.  Those children were single-minded in their defense of each other and the men and women they claimed as family, which included the four of us as well as Santos, Simon, Oenomaus, Mira, Naevia, Libo, and many more.

Taking a deep breath, Duro lifted an arm and waved gaily at the faraway backs of former comrades.  “Fare thee well, fortune-seeking fucks!”  Then he turned and declared to us: “I would test Chadara and Aurelia’s skills with defense today.”

“Donar did not see to their instruction in Pompeii?”  Spartacus frowned as Agron and I exchanged knowing glances.  Duro’s motivation was endearingly obvious, but I would hear the excuse he’d concocted.

“Eh, Donar has grown soft.  Janus could topple him,” Duro dismissed.

He set foot toward the area where Gannicus and Sibyl worked with new recruits.  Agron leaned close and tapped my hip.  A single pleading glance was all I required to know his meaning.

With a brief squeeze to Agron’s elbow, I hurried after Duro.

Surprisingly, Duro harrumphed at the sight of me.  “Fuck.  He sends you to act as guard?”

I blinked, taken aback.  “Perhaps he wishes private words with Spartacus.  Regardless, you intend to recruit Sibyl to aid you with Chadara and Aurelia, yes?  I would offer myself to assist Gannicus in her absence.”

“Oh.  Well.”  Tilting his head in a gesture for me to follow, Duro led the way.

Gannicus’ gleeful chuckles reached us before we laid eyes upon him.

“Gannicus,” Sibyl gently chided without looking away from her charges, “spare them enough pride to dare lift sword.”

The recruit Gannicus was dissecting to limp-armed defeat readily agreed: “Yes, heed your woman.”

“Ha!  Ha-ha-ha.  You will thank me for these blows when you stand upon field of battle, Correus.  Come at me again!”

“Pause a moment, Gannicus,” I spoke, assuming Duro felt some eagerness to see to self-appointed task.

“Pause?” the Celt coughed in disbelief.  “You share this request, German?”

“Alas.  I would ask for Sibyl’s aid.”

Gannicus grinned.  “And you offer Nasir in her stead?”

“Nasir,” I sniped, “offers himself to lead the drills in her place.”  Pointing a warning finger, I bit out, “Assume any man or woman holds my leash and find yourself in grave peril.”

“Challenge is issued!”  Gannicus bowed low, grinning widely.  “Let us cross swords, brother.  It has been a long time.”

“And I will fucking miss it,” Duro groused.

Sibyl patted his arm.  “Not if Nasir resists boyish eagerness until day’s end and we are swift in discharging duty.  What do you require?”

Gannicus giggled and accused Sibyl: “You adore my boyish eagerness!”

“Alas,” she replied with a beaming smile before turning toward path to city gate.

I shook my head at them, but postponed voicing the japes clamoring upon tongue.  I would have Gannicus suffer my wit while Sibyl stood within earshot.

“Recruits!” I bellowed, scooping up from the ground the single, badly battered training blade spurned by even the most desperate recruit.  It truly was a pathetic implement, resembling the gladius I had been given in the arena for token resistance against executioners.  The ghost of iron shackles briefly weighed wrists… and then I flexed arms and hands, breaking the bind of memory with a shout: “First position!”

As the sun climbed the sky, I found myself snarling over Gannicus’ chortles.  He made attempt to cheerfully jeer over my hollered instructions.  I would bark command and he would twitter irritating laugh.  Back and forth.  An obnoxiously endearing battle of voices rather than forms.

The men and women I prodded through drills were wilting by the time Gannicus and I relented and released our exhausted charges for midday meal.

“You would replace the Veteran as harshest taskmaster!” the Celt accused, throwing a sweaty arm over my shoulders.

I jabbed him in the ribs with pommel of least-desired training sword.  As he twitched back to respectable distance, I smirked, “Let us locate your woman.  I would much enjoy her cheers as I beat you senseless.”

“Ha!  Ha-ha-ha, such shit spews from mouth!”

Arching a brow, I inquired, “You would recommend sweetening words with wine?”

“If you so desire.”  He shrugged.  “I relinquish cup.”

“At Sibyl’s behest?”

“Behest?  Fuck the gods, no.  She--”  He paused, squinted toward the city gate standing at a distance upon our path.  “She spoke truth regarding wine and women.  If neither has satisfied by now, then I seek solace in vain.”

I nearly stumbled at the proclamation.  He sputtered at my blank-faced amazement until I managed to cough out: “Do you fucking jest?”

He clapped a wind-chapped hand upon my shoulder.  “I do not.”

“You put faith in her gods?”  I could not curtail my curiosity.

Gannicus lifted a shoulder as we trudged along the crowded road.  “I would put my faith in justice.”  He sent me a bemused smile.  “And if the gods would employ my hands for its delivery, then so be it.”

“And… should the gods suddenly deny you charge?”

“Then I will fall.”  He grinned easily.  “As all men one day must.”

“With sword in hand and blood upon thoughts,” I spoke, naming the end to which all warriors aspired.

Uncaring of the people shuffling in our wake, he stopped and held out his arm in camaraderie.  I clasped it.

“Did you know,” he said as we began walking again, “that Batiatus called for me to appear in the arena many weeks before your capture?”

I jerked, jolting with sudden memory of sand and pain and burning flesh.  My right arm seized up.  “What?”

With an irreverent grin, he told, “I was contacted and recalled for purpose: execution of the Syrian Nasir -- a spectacle in the arena.”

“Before Batiatus’ death?”

He nodded.  “An odd request given that the man had an entire ludus full of men to draw from.”

“We were of the Brotherhood,” I replied slowly, stomach churning as I recalled attacking Liscus with vicious, lethal intent within temple yard.  A line never to be crossed.  That truth had been unveiled before us with each of the seventeen lashes Crixus had received.  Before that moment, many of my brothers might have willingly provided me with a “glorious” death upon the sands.  Had they not witnessed the way our “honored” dominus had licked Glaber’s ass, they might never have seen the pathetic truth behind shimmering illusions of greatness.  “I would have thrown down my weapon in front of all of Capua.”

Gannicus gave me a look, his gaze darting down my tensed arm and lingering upon the cloth I yet kept wrapped around mangled skin.  “And defy the orders of your dominus?” the Celt remarked in a tone that anticipated my answer.

I gave it nonetheless: “It was defiance of Roman whim that first saw pommel into my grasp.”

“So it was,” he agreed amicably.  “Much had changed since my time in Capua.”

I blinked.  And then grinned as his meaning became clear.  “You are no longer that gladiator,” I informed, absolving him of blame.  Yes, he had agreed to execute a “brother,” but he had not yet realized that, despite the superficial rewards of freedom, Rome had yet bound his hands.  “You are a free man.”

And now -- finally -- it was his choice to fight.

“May the gods guide your hands,” I bid.

“Better them than me,” he agreed, mirthful and as much a boy as Janus, who was gratifyingly happy to see me.  I knelt down as he charged over and I took care to clamp a hand over the small knife I carried lest curious fingers attempt to pull it from sheath.

In the dusty yard of Aurelia’s domus, she and Chadara sparred with Donar and Duro.  Sibyl called out a warning to Chadara which enabled the woman to strike a mock blow against Donar’s ribs.  The lumbering shit truly did abhor bending knee and rolling beneath opponent’s arm.  Stodgy fuck.

Gannicus greeted Janus by ruffling the boy’s recently trimmed hair, but he made no move to approach Sibyl.  Perhaps because of the babe cradled in her arms.  He gaped at her as openly as he had at Metapontum’s harbor, a bloodied sword in her grasp and a Roman gasping his last at her feet.

Sensing his gaze, Sibyl turned slowly and smiled at leisure.  Gannicus helplessly returned it.

“Would you hold her?” the woman inquired, nodding to the child in her arms.

I guffawed at the absolute terror that overcame him.  Gannicus held up his hands, taking a prudent step back.  “Your arms are sturdier than mine.”

“And of far more pleasant aroma,” I teased.

Janus smacked my shoulder and I looked to him.  But rather than frowning at me for my inattention, he was pointing toward the alley at my back.

“Nah-si!” the boy informed loudly.

I looked in the indicated direction, but saw no one.  “What did you see, Janus?”

He insisted a second time: “Nah-si!”

Nah-si.  Janus had yet to master anyone’s name, though he came close with Duro’s.  Donar was “Doh-bah” and Chadara was yet “Cha-wa.”  I studied Janus until he squirmed and tugged me over to a pile of stones and several random doodles in the dirt.  A game of his invention.  I allowed him to teach me until Donar declared exercise complete.

“Have I not earned my supper?” he complained to a grimacing Chadara who was doing her best to evade his groping arms.

“You may take it out-of-doors!” she commanded, smacking his waggling fingers away.  “Smelly oaf.”

“I would assist with evening meal,” Sibyl offered, handing Nadua to a gleeful Duro -- gods, but the man adored Aurelia’s children.

“Gratitude, Sibyl.  Well received,” Aurelia sighed, weary from the day’s lesson, but nonetheless gestured for her daughter to be passed into her own arms.  Duro pouted, but obliged.

“And I will prepare the bath,” Chadara volunteered, pinching her nose shut as Donar managed to grapple her into his arms and clamp her form against his filthy chest.

He merely laughed at her show of displeasure.  With a light smack to her rump, he bargained, “See it done and I, in turn, shall bathe you, eh?”  He waggled lolling tongue until Chadara clamped his jaw shut with both hands.

Duro laughed.  “Ah, the German tongue is a very fine thing.  Capable of much enthusiasm.”

I snorted.  “You speak truth.”

Chadara pointed a finger at me.  “Do not encourage this beast.  Either of you,” she amended, attempting to glare Duro into contrition.  Unsuccessfully.

I retorted, “Oh, I think you will thank me for it.”  Were Donar even half as skilled as Agron and half as inclined toward improvement, yes, she most assuredly would!

Though I offered to assist Chadara with her charge, she commanded me to wait in the yard “with the other beasts” until given permission to cross threshold.

Duro squawked in affront.  “She called us beasts, Janus!”

The little boy swayed on his feet until reaching critical momentum which sent him squealing and sprinting around the small square.  Duro chased after him.

“Poor fuck,” Donar opined, shaking his head.

Gannicus laughed softly and smacked the big German on the arm.  “Eh, be generous.  He is happy.  The value of such a thing makes a man brim with wealth.”

“Or at least swell with intent to fuck,” Donar muttered.  “And I’d thought Agron’s display of wooing Nasir would cause my stomach to empty upon sandals--”

I kicked him in the calf.

He grunted and promptly challenged the Celt: “How are you not made sick with his mooning?”

Gannicus sought clarification: “Agron’s over Nasir or Duro’s over Varro’s widow?”

“Hm.  Either.”

“Close mouths,” I sighed as Duro caught Janus and tossed the boy high in the air, catching him neatly on a spin that I fully expected to result in Janus emptying his stomach all over my German brother.  Miraculously, he did not.  Nor did he pass out despite the fact that he could barely breathe through his giggles.  This child was very much Varro’s son, thrilling in the rush of risk and danger.

When the bath was ready and evening meal simmering, Aurelia came out to collect Janus.  He was as limp as boiled cabbage.  Duro appeared very proud of having thoroughly exhausted the boy.

“And now we seek our meals with Agron,” I announced before Aurelia felt compelled to offer us portions from her family’s carefully rationed food.  “Come, brother.”

Gannicus and Sibyl departed ahead of us.  I slowed my steps and pretended not to hear Duro’s whispered vow: “I will visit at dusk on the morrow if you--”

“I await,” Aurelia swiftly, but just as softly answered.

A brief pause.  I did not turn to see if they shared a kiss, a touch, or a look.  Duro had made efforts to give me and Agron private moments.  I would return the kindness.

He sighed as the door shut behind us and I waited until Gannicus and Sibyl had turned the corner ahead to murmur observation: “Many Roman women endure a lengthy mourning period before marrying again.  Is it so in the lands east of the Rhine?”

“What?  No,” Duro replied, startling from his dopey-eyed and smiling stupor.  “Heartache heals in its own time, yet life continues onward.”

“A harsh way to live.”

“We are warriors.  Grief neither feeds children nor provides shelter from storms.”  He frowned.  “But I would not have either stand as the reason Aurelia takes a new husband.”

“Do Chadara and Donar not relieve much of that burden from her shoulders?”

“They do.”

“Yet you hesitate.”  I bumped his arm.  “Such is not your way, oafish pup.”

The sound of his growl startled me from the pleasant hum of what I’d mistaken for friendly jests.  “My hands and words are knowingly restrained, Nasir.”

“For what purpose?”  I paused upon the quiet street and pulled Duro to a halt beside me.  “Do you believe Varro would be displeased?”

When my young brother refused to meet my gaze, I pressed: “He would be glad for a man of your qualities to care for his family, bring laughter to Aurelia and guide Janus to manhood.  Your affection for them honors him.  Let his spirit find peace in their happiness.”

Duro sniffed, scrubbed at his eyes, huffed.  When he at last cast gaze my way, he was smirking.  “Encouragement well received, little brother.”  He palmed the top of my head and ruffled my hair loose from its braid.  “But still your tongue on the matter.”

I slapped his hand away.  “You would anger me for purpose of distraction.  A foolish plan, little brother.”

“A desperate one,” he confessed.

“Provide one excuse for delay.”

“Freedom from Rome lies a far distance.”  And from the somber expression pushing his normally carefree manner aside, he did not dare assume he would survive it.  My grip upon his arm tightened.  He reached up and patted my hand.  “Upon threshold of that life, I will speak my heart.”

My hand slid away as he began walking.  “In the meantime,” he continued, “I endeavor to show my regard.”

“Endeavor,” I drawled, shaking my head.  “It fucking pours from you.”

“Then I shall endeavor not to drown her.”

“Aurelia strikes me as a woman who easily withstands strong currents.”

Duro chuckled and reached up to flick my ear.  I poked him in the ribs.

By the time we wrestled each other across domus threshold, his meaty arm was locked around my neck and my feet were tangling his.

Agron looked up from the meal he was in the process of laying out upon table, a single brow arching imperiously at our antics.

Duro abandoned me to fall upon the nearest platter.

“Wash hands!” Agron scolded, lunging over the length of the table top to shove Duro back.

“What--fucking--!?”

I bit back my amusement as best I could as Agron mutely pointed Duro into the bathroom.  My muffled snort earned a crude gesture.

“Gratitude, but as you once advised I seek any and all fucking from Agron…”

Duro rolled his eyes.  “Then I shall leave you two to it after I’ve eaten.  The two of you can withhold hands from one another for that long, can you not?”

“Hmm… uncertain,” I warbled at his departing back.  I circled the table, stalking Agron who looked rather taken at being the sole recipient of my hungry focus.  “Agron is rather delectable!”

A myriad of German curses bounced off of the bathroom walls and tumbled along corridor.

I hooked my thumbs into Agron’s belt and swiveled him around to receive a series of kisses along top of chest.  His fingers dug gently into my hair, not to restrain or guide but simply to feel.

“What have I done to earn these open affections?” Agron rumbled against my scalp.

“Donar is taken with Chadara.  Gannicus is taken with Sibyl.  Duro is taken with Aurelia.  It is spring,” I explained with a one-shouldered shrug.

Agron giggled.

“Fuck all the--swine shit and goat cock!” Duro blustered, stomping over to the table.  “Would it be asking overmuch to take one meal absent the sight of you two on the verge of fucking?”

“Yes,” Agron and I both spoke at once.

“I despise you both.  You are goat spit.  I have no brothers.”

Despite assertions, he sat.  He ate.  He even scrubbed his platter clean beneath the water pump and made no mention of the fact that Agron’s left hand remained below table’s edge, toying with the hem of trouser fabric upon my thigh for the duration of meal.

“Fuck each other!” Duro shouted on his way toward the door.

“And with your blessings!” Agron yelled at his back.  “What task do you now--”

“I deliver Castus to the Veteran for training.”  One foot over the threshold, Duro held up a hand to forestall our objections.  “Yes, yes, I fucking know we cannot trust him!  Jupiter’s fucking cock.  Oenomaus would evaluate the little monsters.  Does a parade of thirty-seven savages not satisfy?”

“Speak of their savage abilities with a measure of pride,” I chastised, brow quirked.

Duro beamed.  “My legacy endures, eh?”

The door thumped shut just as my forehead bounced against Agron’s shoulder and his hand squeezed my thigh.  But I would not speak of Duro.  “A pleasant surprise to find you here rather than taking meal with Spartacus or in German camp.”

I did not inquire of Agron’s motivation for taking leave from his duties to seek this rare, afternoon interlude.  The comforts of a roof and four walls, a private bath and stocked cellar -- luxuries no longer in plentiful supply.  Our days in Metapontum were numbered.

“Merely pleasant?” he checked, a teasing lilt in his voice.

I lifted face to receive chaste kiss.  “It surpasses that mild description more and more.”

“More?” he rumbled against my lips.

“And more,” I confirmed.  A thorough kiss.  My fingers tugged at Agron’s belt.  “Agron?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

We fumbled upright, toppling the bench and tripping into our bedroom.  Gods but I needed him.  I needed his trust.  I needed proof -- before we left this place behind forever -- that we did not leave behind the best parts of ourselves, that there was still much _****good****_  between us… and better yet to come.

Rolling onto unmade bed, crumpled linens against bare skin, our forms twining with blind need.  Open mouths and biting teeth.  Growls.  Hisses.

“How would you have me?” I panted against his jaw.

Agron’s hand curled around and cradled mine, dipped my fingers into the oil and placed slickened tips at his entrance.

The wave of relief nearly sent me crashing to the linens, but it was Agron who fell back against the mattress.  Gazed up at me.  Trusting.  His other palm against my cheek and thumb brushing my lips as he spread his thighs and invited my touch.  It was as our first time only now his body anticipated every caressing advance as I prepared him to receive my cock.

Ah, fuck.

“Agron,” I whispered.  My lips pursed, pressing a kiss against the pad of his thumb.  I spoke the words Duro had taught.  I breathed the words I had learned from my German kin.  I told Agron in the tongue spoken by warriors east of the Rhine: “You are my heart.”

His lashes fluttered on a groan and I was emboldened to make observation: “Even in death, we cannot be parted--”  I palmed his scar.  “--unless the organ is carved from chest, blood emptied from veins, and memory crushed from shade.”

His jaw clenched and spine arched.  “Nasir.”  More than a name, it was a tribute to the man I had become and a plea to join with him in unbreakable union.

“Yes,” I agreed and, flexing my hips slowly, gave myself as he ceded.  He took as I offered.  He curled up, staring into my eyes, and when he kissed me, I hid nothing from him.  We shared panting breaths, slid closer into open arms.  His heart.  My heart.  Each passed into the other’s keeping.

I moved as slowly and as thoroughly as my mortal form could withstand, and then Agron’s hand skimmed down my spine, past waist, beyond tailbone and ah, fuck!

He desired me wild.

I held neither the strength nor inclination to refuse.  I crashed into him, relentlessly stalked his heat, chased after his pleasure.  I hunted him with intent to devour.

“Ah, fuck!  Nasir!  Fuck--fuck!”

He coaxed me closer, his hands twitching as if they might clutch, then diving into the linens to grip and tear the fabric rather than my skin but no.  No!  “Agron--place hands--upon me,” I gasped, hips slamming against his.  Hard-harder- _ ** **harder!****_

He groaned.  “I cannot--you will bruise.”

“Yes,” I chose.  “I would have you wild.”

He gaped at me for a moment, body stilling with shock, and then one hand speared into my hair and the other clamped onto my hip.  His desperation was _****my****_  desperation.  This grasping need.  Grabbing and clawing at one another as though cessation would leave us choking, absent breath.

Agron’s body arched, drew taut, and we were beyond pleasure now.  We strained toward existence itself.  And when he locked tight around me, releasing spurts of seed with such force that splatters shot up to his neck and chin, I was with him.  Trapped in him.  Caught up and following over the precipice.

I would follow him anywhere.

I may have screamed.  Loudly.  My throat felt raw, dry.  A scratchy quality that I occasionally gained after a full day of shouting drills, tumbling recruits, and fighting opponents in the dust.

“Agron?” I wheezed, seeking confirmation that I had not damaged him, that he and I had not damaged _****us.****_

Gentle fingertips tucked tugged-loose strands behind my ears.  “Jupiter himself,” Agron whispered and I lifted gaze to bask in his awe, “would find cause to tremble should he attempt to wrest you from my arms.”

My smile trembled from relief, exhaustion, and a terrible power that made my skin ache and strain.  “Yes,” I agreed.  “He would.”

I reached for Agron’s hand.  Interlaced our fingers.  Kissed his calluses.  No one would survive the attempt to separate us, be they man or god.

“Fuck the gods,” Agron murmured and, lips twitching, I finished his thought, “and fight.  Fuck the gods and fight.”

I clutched his hand hard, my body left weak in the wake of our union but strength of will doubled.  What material was stronger, sharper, more deadly than steel?  This: Agron and I.

My lover shifted, absently wiping at the cooling mess upon our skin with a corner of the sheet -- it would remain soiled for there would be no more laundry days here in Metapontum -- and he cuddled close, snuggling into my arms and dabbling soft, scruff-edged kisses upon my shoulder, neck, cheek, forehead.

When he shifted up onto one elbow, I held tight to his arm.  “Pause a while before returning to duties.  I would draw a hot bath.”  I had never been so rough with him and I would not have him overly sore.  Agron should never be made to suffer for love.  I thought of the bronze pen and iron key and smiled.

“For whom is this bath intended?” he inquired fondly.

“Myself,” I lied with gusto.  “You have exhausted me.”

“I must lend hands, then.”

“Hm.  Yes.  You must.  I demand tribute.”

“Of gold?  Delicacies?  Silks and other shit?”

“Of joy.  The greatest joy of my life.  I trust you recall what that is?”

He beamed, leaned close, nudged his nose against my cheek, and kissed me slow and shallow.  Hm, yes.  This delicacy.  This silk.  This.  His touch, as yet unparalleled.

“So long as I draw breath,” he vowed, “I provide unlimited supply.”

This man.  Perfection.  Every inch, every scar, every curse and foul mood and sour grimace.  I would exchange nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Jupiter himself would find cause to tremble should he attempt to wrest you from my arms,” Agron says here (and in the TV show), but unlike in the TV show, Nasir AGREES WITH HIM instead of trying to tease and deflect. (Well, that’s what I took away from “You would battle a god for me?” and “Strike Jupiter and the Cilician from mind…”) If I had to point to one or two sources of this change in attitude, it would be these:
> 
> (1) Duro has supported their love 100% from Day One and that goes a long way toward giving Nasir the strength to stand up for it and fight for it and believe that he is allowed to have this, and
> 
> (2) Nasir became a gladiator. He beat Romans at their own game. (Which is perhaps not how he sees his transformation into a warrior in the TV show? I think Nasir sees himself as becoming a warrior IN SPITE OF Rome, instead of BECAUSE OF Rome.) So he is very aware of his inner strength in APMF.
> 
> Duro does have some very solid reasons for holding back from actively courting Aurelia. Further details to come!
> 
> To be honest, Gannicus and Sibyl are extremely close-lipped about the specifics of their relationship, so I haven't written any details. Sure, other people assume they're together, but I'm not 100% sure they have romantic feelings for each other in APMF. (Is it weird that I can see them as parents more easily than I can see them as lovers? Yeah, I'm just weird.) Anyway. Yes, Saxa has drifted off and taken other lovers probably because she doesn't know what Gannicus wants and it's confusing her, which makes her angry so she basically says, "Forget this -- I got people to enjoy and life to live and I'm not gonna angst about it here." All this happens "off-camera" because Nasir can't be everywhere at once, yeah?


	10. A Pirate's Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: mentions of selling one’s own children into slavery, heavy backstory stuff, sexytimes

Pirates.

Sanus complained loudly of how they jostled for position in Metapontum’s harbor, eager to claim a berth and reluctant to set sail.  Ship captains behaved as recalcitrant children during final cargo inspection, which ensured no vessel departed harbor with captives bound for slave market.

“As magistrate of this fair city, so stands your charge!” Gannicus teased, obligingly topping off Sanus’ wine cup and leaving his own unattended.  Sibyl was as out of place in the rollicking hall as a violet in a swine paddock.  How she sat unmolested and utterly content at the Celt’s side, I did not know, but I understood her willingness.

Tomorrow, we would dismantle the last of the tents, hitch horses to wagons, and depart Metapontum.  Many amphorae of wine had already been set aside for the cleaning of wounds exclusively and carefully packed aboard carts, but much still remained.  It would be a shame to leave such pleasurable drink behind.

The atmosphere of the hall, while festive, was also tinged with exhaustion and anxiety.

Exhaustion following days of seemingly endless tasks: wagons had not repaired themselves, nor could cart be laden with supplies absent hands and sound direction overseeing them.

Anxiety in the wake of Spartacus’ announcement in the arena: the final necessities had been delivered, and now we would raid due west before running the gauntlet of Rome north to freedom.

Castus had visibly released held breath at the news and Duro had nudged him with elbow, laughing.  “You yet think us fools?”

“Foolishness and bravery are separated solely by outcome, are they not?” the Numidian had returned with a soft smile.

Duro had shaken his head.  Rolled his eyes.  “That fuck Heracleo will be forced to secure other cargo for profit.”

Carelessly spoken words, yet Castus and I had exchanged weighted stares.  Heracleo would indeed be waiting at Brundusium, hoping to offer passage to Grecian shores in exchange for coin… only I doubted any man or woman who set foot upon his ship would reach intended destination.  Nor would they disembark absent chains upon wrists.  Why be satisfied with one profit when another awaits?  Healthy slaves sold in auction at Damascus or Carthage would weight an enterprising pirate’s palm with coin.

Heracleo would be greatly disappointed.  Twice thwarted of profit.  And what was more, Castus had successfully quit the crew, surviving his captain’s attempt to see him dead at the hands of the very men and women Castus had been ordered to spy on.  One rumor had nearly delivered punishment for Castus’ desertion.  An inventive manner of execution.  Roman, even.

“Fucking pirates!” Sanus bellowed for the tenth time this night.

Agron jostled my shoulder.  “You favor well-fattened men of dark skin now?”

“Hm?”

His chin jerked toward Sanus.  At whom I had been blankly staring as mind had wandered.

Knocking Agron’s knee with mine, I laughed in the face of his beaming smile.  “You hold much intimate knowledge of the man who holds my favor.”  I poked a finger into his scruffy dimple.  “And merely seek compliments with which to swell already massive head.”

He chuckled, low and promising.  “Massive, hm?”

I rolled my eyes.  “Unmanageable lummox.”

Agron’s arm stretched across my back.  Palming my hip, he nuzzled aside escaped tendrils of hair and whined, “You piss on me as a wild dog marks territory.”

“You stand fortunate I count you as mine.”

“Ha!”  As his bark of laughter faded, it also took the humor from his countenance.  Titling brow to mine, he sincerely agreed: “You speak truth.”

Either despite or due to position upon bench in public hall, surrounded by allies, friends, and brothers on the eve of tremendous venture, I made no effort to stay the impulse to press our wine-stained mouths together, lap at his stubble-bordered lips, nip and suckle until he exhaled on a telltale shudder.

“Wine yet remains in cup,” he deplored against smiling lips, shadowing my slow retreat.

“We might pass our portions to Duro.”

Agron made a happy noise at my suggestion, but then glancing up and across the hall, he huffed.  “He yet converses with that fucking Numidian.”

Therefore, we would linger to stand guard.  Over the past weeks, we had often neglected this charge in favor of seeking private moments; Lugo and Totus and even Donar had stood with Duro in our stead.  Although Castus had given us no reason to question his recently professed allegiance, neither Agron nor I would abandon our little brother to the wine-blurred battle prowess of drunken German warriors should he require aid.

“Great-army-Nasir!” Lugo bellowed without warning from just beyond corner of eye.

My arm went to my side where sword would rest had I not forfeited it at city gate.  Agron, having tensed for action beside me, blew out a blustery breath.

“Fuck the gods, Lugo!”

He chortled, lifted cup, and boasted in German: “Each and every Roman god would be raw in ass!”

I scrubbed hands over face and muttered in common tongue, “No force could compel me to immerse cock in their filth.”

Lugo plopped down upon opposite bench with enough force to cause it to squeak and wobble alarmingly.  The man put out an arm to reclaim balance and Agron obliged with helping hand.

Tugging my lover close, drunken haze slipped from the man’s expression as he growled, “When do we kill the Numidian?”

This plan, while not wholly repugnant to me, was a surprise.  I glanced at Agron just as he blinked, equally shocked.  From the quick, easy grin that flitted across his lips, he did not take Lugo’s words to heart.  “Anytime you like.  Will bench suffice in place of ax?”

Stretching an arm across to grab Lugo’s wrist, I demanded, “I would first hear cause of offense.”

Lugo grimaced.  “When Duro next bends to knot sandals, he will find Numidian’s cock in ass.”

Agron’s smile fell away.  He sat up with purpose, gaze soaring past gesticulating limbs and heads knocked back in laughter to where Castus smiled and charmed and -- fuck the gods -- _****ogled****_  our brother.

Lugo nodded at my disappointment.  “Hm.  You see, yes?”

“I have eyes,” I grumbled as Agron sputtered: “How is it this takes your fucking notice?”

“My brother,” the older German crowed with false gaiety, leaning back and casting his free arm wide to encompass all in the hall, “Lugo notice all that regards fucking!”

And he took additional notice of the men and women he called kin.  Lugo studied the state of each and every one of them.  This group, which he housed within his massive heart, most assuredly included Duro.

Agron pushed to his feet.  I was a moment behind him, making no move to hold him back, but requesting explanation with a soft: “Agron?”

“I would shut that shit-spewing fuck’s teeth.”

Or perhaps knock them from jaw.

I knew not if Lugo toddled in our wake; Agron plowed through wine-splashed revelry on a direct course for his brother.  With Agron focused purely ahead, I swept gaze left and right -- sense of surroundings.

Duro’s braying laughter and then--

“Remove fucking hand!”

I glanced over Agron’s arm, following the direction of snarled words toward the Numidian’s grasp upon Duro’s upper arm.  Winced.

Fuck.

“Brother, you--” Duro began.

Agron spoke over him and accused Castus: “You side with Spartacus for the sake of sheathing cock.”

Castus sent a pointed glance my way before smiling stupidly up at my lover.  “You would deny a free man the very course you chose?”

Oh, fuck.

Before I could pull air into shock-flattened lungs, Agron’s fist smashed across Castus’ face.  I flinched back, the sound of dull, solid impact sending me back to the ludus, back to the blow Agron had landed upon Crixus’ cheek, back to the moment of helpless realization that this German could kill a man with naught but bare fists.

Castus stumbled back into a cluster of carousing Gauls.  They nudged him aside and, unwittingly, into the upper cut Agron delivered to the Numidian’s chin.

“Agron!  Fucking calm yourself!” Duro screamed over the songs and laughter and wave of cheers as bystanders took note of the altercation.

Castus swung at Agron -- a precision, retaliatory strike that impressed with its accuracy yet held not the strength to stay the hand that grabbed Castus’ vest or the third oncoming punch.

Duro wound an arm around Agron’s, levering his weight against bulging muscle.

Agron snarled, irritated at the resistance but undeterred.  He merely released vest fabric from grasp and backhanded Castus to his knees.

“Cease, you mad fucking goat!” Duro roared in his brother’s ear.

Agron was insensate with fury: “This fucking pirate!”

Duro and Agron, at cross purposes.  Where did I stand?  My eyes focused briefly upon Castus, who flailed wildly in attempt to grasp something or someone in aid of pulling himself upright.  Even as I moved, I knew I erred, but I ducked beneath Agron’s arm nonetheless and grabbed Castus under the elbow.

I gave the man no moment to gather himself, hauling him toward nearest threshold.  If Agron would kill the man, then let him do so out-of-doors.

“Gratitude,” Castus laughed through a half-delirious smile.

Tossing him roughly against filthy wall, I snapped, “I but change venue!”

He gazed up at me from where he slumped, one hand braced upon knee.  “You would not spare me?”

“I would not deny Agron his right as an older brother.”

The Numidian’s eyes squeezed shut briefly.  “A duty I too once held.”

A scuffle at my back, a telltale growl.  Agron, despite Duro’s interference, would be upon us momentarily.

“Your final words?” I prompted.

Castus sucked in a breath--

“You!” Agron raged and some sense had me turning, tensing at the glare locked not upon Castus but upon me.  “You would aid this fuck in shoving cock in our brother’s ass?”

My hands fisted.

Duro sputtered.  “Has it been too long since Nasir fucked sense into you with his?  Castus is a friend!”

“A friend who would fuck you!”

My young brother rolled his eyes up toward the night sky.  “A privilege no one of sense would decline!  I am prime!”

My fingers slackened as a puff of incredulous laughter exploded from chest at his boast.  He was even grinning with pride.  Ridiculous pompous puke.

Duro swung himself in front of Agron, shoving both hands at his brother’s chest.  Duro’s feet skidded upon grimy stones at the effort.

Duro shouted, “Castus has made no secret of his desires!”

That hooked Agron’s attention.  “And you accept?”  He stared at Duro as though seeing him for the first time.

Duro whapped Agron upon the jaw.  “What do you fucking bleat?  You know I hold no interest in any cock other than my own.”  He glanced quickly over his shoulder to voice a genuine but hasty--“Apologies!”

I could not stop myself from taunting, “A claim made false by your repeated concern for the satisfaction of Agron’s.”

My lover’s shoulders did not relax, no, but they ceased straining hard enough to raise veins against skin.

Duro snorted.  “He’s my brother.  Of course I would hope that you tend to him properly.”

“Nasir no longer stands a slave!” Agron bit out.

“You mistake meaning!” I hissed.  And not for the first time this night.  Did Agron intentionally affect the dense manner of village idiot?  “It stands a brother’s charge to see to safety and happiness of siblings.  Or do you beat Castus for some other reason?”

Agron slouched, no longer pushing against Duro’s braced hand.  “I beat no one at the moment,” he groused as Duro’s arm dropped.

I bit back the wholly inappropriate bark of laughter at my lover’s crestfallen countenance.  Perhaps he sensed it, though, because he turned to me next.  “For what reason would you spare this slinking shit?”

“I but spare celebration unwelcome disruption.”  With a shake of head, I offered proof: “You will not find my hands attempting to restrain your blows.”  Unlike Duro’s.

It was entirely possible that Lucius had been correct in assuming Agron and I shared a mind for his glare jerked to Duro’s face.  He voiced no demand for explanation; his simmering silence was an interrogation in and of itself.

“He is a friend!  Castus has proved himself of use to Spartacus’ cause,” Duro blustered with fury yet to spare.

“Yet has provided no account of motives!”

“Then let him speak them now!”

_**Then let him speak them now.**_ Castus’ motives.  All of this... this... _**kerfuffle**_ for the sake of forcing truth from their prey?  Duro and Agron had maneuvered this moment to serve their purpose, to learn a pirate’s truth as they’d just days ago assured Spartacus they would?

By the gods.  Perhaps I gave them too much credit -- for Agron was genuinely incensed and Duro sincerely irked -- but I did not dare _**underestimate**_ my Germans.

Agron took a single step forward, nudging Duro aside in order to view Castus fully.  “Well?  Moment of truth arrives.  It will not come again, pirate.”

To his credit, Castus looked to neither me nor Duro for assistance.  He pushed himself away from the wall, lifting chin and squaring shoulders.

“As spoken in presence of Spartacus, I realized I stood a slave.”  Jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, Castus challenged, “You call me ‘pirate’ -- how do you believe so becomes a man?  By choice?”

Some, perhaps.  I was ashamed to admit that I had never given the matter consideration.

Castus explained: “I was sold -- sold by my own father -- a long drought and poor harvest -- desperation forces the worst from those we hold closest.”

I twitched chin away from faint memory: distant sound of hoof beats muffled by sand and scent of charred flesh carried upon hot breeze.

“Heracleo purchased you?” Duro muttered, confounded.

Castus nodded once, his body thrumming with barely contained rage.

“My father--”  He paused to hiss in steadying breath.  “My father begged me to make myself indispensable to the captain himself so that I would sail with his crew rather than be sold upon distant shore.  He vowed -- my father gave his word! -- to buy my freedom when ship next docked in port.”

Glaring up at Agron, Castus bit out, “He did not.”

Silence washed through the shadowed alley, crashing against the merriment which poured from open doorway.

“And yet you did not buy yours,” my lover retorted, accusing gaze falling to the jewel Castus wore about neck.

Biting lip, Castus rolled his head in a furious dismissal.  “By the time my share of plunder would have secured it, I had no home to return to.  The following harvest had failed as well and villages -- neighbors -- turned upon one another.  If anyone among my kin yet draws breath, they do so in the service of a master.”

Duro put out a hesitant hand, barely cupping Castus’ shoulder.  “You were given no indication of what became of them?”

“The neighbors who beat them, bound them, and sold them were themselves enslaved and taken abroad for sale.  Who else would know their fate but…”

“But the pirates who transported them,” I finished when it became clear that Castus could not and my Germans looked to each other in confusion and then to me for explanation.

Castus agreed.  “I abandoned search long ago.  Too much time had gone by.  Ships’ hulls had seen too many in similar circumstance.  Neither sailors nor slavers would recall faces so many months past.”

How frustrating and fucking hopeless.  Though Castus’ position on Heracleo’s crew had provided opportunity to make inquiries, he had not known of his family’s abduction and sale until long after defining characteristics had faded from memory, forms merging with masses of featureless human cargo.  Absent direction of the captain or crew that that had transported them, Castus would be forced to search every port, question every slaver… and he would yet confront the same obstacle time and time again.

I dared, “Lack of recollection may be to their benefit.  The ones who cause difficulty tend to linger in memory.”  With luck, perhaps his family had survived voyage to market and been sold to masters of desirable mediocrity.

Castus beamed with sudden force, though it must have required every ounce of his determination to do so.  He concluded, “I choose to believe that my father had saved me.  Unwittingly.”

Duro shook his head as Agron scowled.  My Germans could not imagine a father who would part with a son in such a manner.  Had their own father not lost at least one son?  Or did I misunderstand the words I had overheard the morning following Nemetes’ final challenge?

“But my time here reveals truth,” Castus spoke with air of conclusion.  “Nasir provided opportunity to gain strength.”  He nodded his gratitude.  “Agron shows unbreakable bond of genuine kinship.”  He and Agron exchanged silent glares and then Castus looked toward Duro, smiling with fondness.  “I had friends once -- cousins and other boys of my village who would stand at my side.  I had forgotten--no, I had disregarded it as mere childish innocence and dismissed any man as fool who clung to that expectation.”

A moment of achingly bare silence.

Duro’s grip tightened and he gave Castus a small shake.  Pointing a scolding finger at the man’s growing smile, my young brother warned, “Pretty words will not convince me to fuck you.”

“I may yet find ones that will,” Castus dared, thrilling at presented challenge.

Agron tensed.  “Do ears not heed refusal?”

“Ears, yes, but heart…” Castus shrugged with helpless eloquence.

I rolled my eyes.  “Your charm reeks with the sweetness and weight of lead,” I informed him.

“You recommend subtly?” he jested, pulling a snort from me.

I spoke to Agron, “Apologies.  In hindsight, you were fair near bursting at times within ludus.”

He reached out an open hand, and I stepped up against his palm, fitting it against my cheek and jaw.  “I voiced no complaint.”

He had not.  This man had happily suffered my hesitance at intimacy… and then he had endured my resistance to public displays… and then he had summoned much patience as wound healed.  All for the sake of my comfort.

I had no words -- none that I would voice here in open street and in the presence of others -- save these: “You may yet convince me to forego the privacy of walls.”

“Ugh.  You forget the fucking villa,” Duro complained.

Agron informed me with mock revelation: “The grass was not overgrown enough.”

“Advice gained too late,” I replied, grinning.

Agron moved close and pressed a kiss to my brow.

“Well?” Castus pressed jovially.  “Am I for the afterlife?”

Agron’s sigh heated the breeze-cooled skin upon my forehead.

When my lover made no move to evade the arm I looped around back of waist, Duro giggled.  “Not this night!”

“You may yet be of use,” I teased, leaning into Agron’s warmth.

A smile slowly curled Castus’ lips.  “Do you extend invitation?”

“To see you to your own bed where you may rest alone absent interruption?” Agron proposed with abundant sweetness.  He gestured broadly.  “Lead the way.”

Castus pouted.

I bit my lip and, quite honestly, could not wait to get Agron flat upon back, naked, and groaning under my kisses and roving hands.

Following successful delivery of Castus to infirmary and its many pairs of watchful eyes, of course.  A task we quickly dispensed with.

“Honest effort--” Duro implored as he slammed domus door shut behind us.  “That is all I ask of you both -- put forth _****honest effort****_  at fucking in silence.”

“If you but shut mouth and fall to slumber,” Agron jibed, “issue will not arise.”

My abrupt snort drew the attention of both and, to Agron’s grin of anticipation and Duro’s quirked brows, I snickered: “Issues that arise.”

Duro swung to slap me upon back of head, but Agron’s arm intercepted the blow.  He pointed Duro toward his room along corridor in mute demand.

Grumbling with palms pressed over ears, Duro went.

“Continue such treatment and he’ll abandon us in battle,” I laughingly warned, leaning upon closed bedroom door as Agron nipped my neck.  I tugged belt and cloth loose, and he lapped at unshaven jaw.  My fingers tangled in his hair.

He growled, encouraging and hitching himself closer.  Ah, skin upon skin.  Yes.  “Should he dare,” Agron replied and I was forced to pause a moment in order to recall most recent words, “he will stand most displeased when we claim glory for ourselves.”

“Your pup of a brother whines a fair amount.”

“Cease talk of him with our bed so near.”

“If you find my words displeasing, devise some means to halt their flow.”

He did.

Our loving was wild and unrestrained, sensation bursting through our pores as we feasted upon one another in silence.  Uncoordinated and rough, but not rushed.  Not here and now, on our last night under this roof.

No fist banged upon door.  No shouts of complaint echoed.  And yet, in the wake of passion, I could find no rest.  Agron dozed, waking when I sat up, and he readily accepted the cut of cloth that I dampened with water from beside pitcher.  We scrubbed the sweat and seed and musk from skin, dressed in subligaria, and sought our brother.

On the eve of the unknown, we three piled together upon Duro’s bed.  He scooted over to make room for me and Agron; he’d been waiting.  Had Duro been taken by slumber, neither the sound of door opening nor footsteps approaching would have roused him.

“From tomorrow, we kill many Romans,” Duro predicted on a yawn.

I smiled against Agron’s arm.

With dawn came expected chaos.  I calmly gave instruction, dimly hearing Santos’ equally level voice further along roadside.  Even Castus lent aid in guiding people toward movement.  Duro smiled and Agron snapped as needed.

So began the march of Spartacus’ army.  Southwest, crossing the Casuentus, Acalandrus, and Aciris Rivers.  The Gauls took Grumentum and stripped the city bare.  We turned due west thereafter; Germans, Syrians, and Nubians claimed Caesariana.  Celts, Numidians, and a motley assortment of Iberians, Sardinians, and Judeans roared around the foot of Lucania’s Alburnus Mountains to plunder Sontia.

We crossed the Popilian Way, choosing to follow roads of lesser width and popularity north along the Calor River.

And this was where five of our scouts ran ahead… and failed to return.

Spartacus called for us, holding conference even as wagons creaked and feet shuffled along the dirt road.  It would take too long to call a halt and it would take longer yet to inspire all to movement once caravan had taken pause.  We planned assault as mist rolled in.  The sky grumbled.  Wind pushed and tugged.  A second, more cautious wave of scouts returned with news: Roman forces awaited us ahead.

We had expected to meet resistance upon the road to freedom.  Every crest and every curve had held the possibility of bloodshed.  Which crest and which curve -- which _****day****_  -- was no longer in question.

“See to your men and prepare for battle.”  Spartacus said, “It is time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Nasir says, “Advice gained too late.” FINALLY. (I’ve been keeping an eye out for a good opening.) (^_~)
> 
> Also, Lugo is awesome. (And perhaps easily distracted because he didn’t follow Duro and Agron outside to confront Castus, did he?) I love to think of Lugo as Uncle Lugo. Providing a helpful nudge wherever needed. (^_^)
> 
> Am I a Castus fan? Hmm… yes and no. I approve of almost nothing he says or does in the TV show, and yet I wonder how he ended up as Heracleo’s right-hand man. I don’t think there’s one “right” answer to that question, either. In APMF, I tried to come up with a backstory for him that was different from some of the others that the TV show’s main characters are known to have. HOWEVER, I still want there to be good reasons for Castus to be looked on with distrust (because how could anyone who has an ounce of honor stand alongside pirates like Heracleo??) but Castus’ past (in APMF) perhaps makes him more understandable. Despite a sympathetic backstory, I hope he’s still the same smarmy, opportunistic, manipulative, incorrigible git that we met in the TV show.

**Author's Note:**

> This brings us to the conclusion of The Army. I sure hope there was something here that you liked. A kudo would be lovely and an encouraging comment will make me your fan for life. (^_^)


End file.
